


Sending A Raven

by saltnhalo



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, BAMF Castiel (Supernatural), BAMF Dean Winchester, Dean/Cas Pinefest 2019, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Leader Dean Winchester, M/M, Magic, Mutual Pining, Temporary Character Death, Viking Castiel, Viking Dean Winchester, Vikings, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-08
Updated: 2019-03-08
Packaged: 2019-11-06 19:09:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 38,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17945453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saltnhalo/pseuds/saltnhalo
Summary: When Dean, the Viking jarl ofTýrvik, leaves on a raid to combat the enemy warriors attacking their ships, his husband Castiel is left to protect and lead the village. The ships return barely a week later, with damaged timbers and a devastated, leader-less crew, and suddenly Castiel finds himself not only in a position of leadership for which he is ill-equipped, but terrified for the safety of his captured husband.With the possibility of a spy somewhere in the village’s midst, Castiel leaves his people under Sam’s care and departs on the journey north to where they think Dean is being held, in a desperate attempt to rescue him before it’s too late.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello again! I'm so glad to have finally made it to posting day, even though I'm battling posting this before I go to work and with my internet freaking the fuck out. Firstly, this fic is based on [Far From Home](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8y4Sz8_Oq1M) by Sam Tinnesz, because without it I wouldn't have a fic at all. It's poetic and beautiful and I recommend listening to it before you start reading. Secondly, thank you to my betas: [MalMuses](https://archiveofourown.org/users/malmuses), [son_of_a_bitch_spn_family](https://archiveofourown.org/users/son_of_a_bitch_spn_family/pseuds/son_of_a_bitch_spn_family), [rocksalt&honey](http://rocksaltandhoney.tumblr.com) and [captainhaterade](http://captainhaterade.tumblr.com), your advice and keen eyes were invaluable. And lastly but absolutely not leastly, thank you to my fucking fantastic artist [anyrei](https://archiveofourown.org/users/anyrei). You are lovely and amazing and so so talented, and I'm so glad to have met you through this challenge. Her art is absolutely stunning, and you guys should let her know how much you love it in the comments, or go give it some love on tumblr [here](https://anyreiart.tumblr.com/post/183319917211/my-pinefest-art-masterpost-for-send-me-a-raven).
> 
> Enjoy!

[](https://66.media.tumblr.com/6cdcac31ee97a3493b93a2e442f694a0/tumblr_po2fewk0lq1y3d8hfo1_1280.jpg)

It all begins with a fleet of burning boats.

Dean looks out over the water of the inlet, shrouded in mist and smoke, the grief of his village weighing heavily on his shoulders. Over fifty men had departed on the raid a mere week ago, but never made it to their destination.

Barely twenty had returned home.

Smoke spirals upwards from the funeral boats that drift slowly towards the mouth of the cove. Thirty-two good warriors, good _men_ , gone from this world. They will feast in Valhalla tonight, Dean is sure, but that is a cold comfort for those left behind. At least they had died fighting bravely, as their returned friends had told Dean in the Tinghöll last night—though they shouldn’t have died at all.

“Jarl Dean.”

The voice is quiet, but Dean registers it beneath the sound of the mournful, eerie song that emanates from the clustered villagers and spills out over the still waters of the cove. He takes his eyes off the water and half-turns towards the man who has stepped up to his side. “Cas,” he greets softly. The temptation to let his walls down is strong, but he knows he must remain stoic for his people.

“I have spoken with the guards. The watch will be increased for the next few days. I don’t trust whoever attacked our ships not to strike against our village.”

Because that’s the thing. Whatever had happened out there on the water, relayed to Dean in defeated tones by the remaining warriors of the raid… it hadn’t been _fair_. In the beginning of raiding season, every village is focused on getting across to the distant lands, for their warriors to prove themselves once again. The eyes of the villages should _not_ be turned to one another, except in camaraderie.

The fact that Dean’s raid was ambushed before they had barely gotten out of Viking waters, by ships and warriors bearing no identifying symbols, is a spit in the face to Dean. It is not an insult that he will idly ignore.

“Thank you, Cas,” he says quietly. They stand together on the wooden dock and watch the boats burn, until the last of them have been reduced to flickering flames and embers. The songs were ceased a little while ago, and silence hangs over the cove and its sheltered valley.

Dean makes his way off the dock, Castiel one step to his left at all times. Slowly, the people of his village gather from their places of mourning, spots along the water or the docks where they stood to watch those they loved on their final trip to Valhalla. Hundreds of eyes watch Dean in the dying light.

“Our fallen brothers will be avenged,” he promises his people. His voice rings out over the assembled crowd, honed by years of practice. “Whoever is responsible for this attack, I promise you, we will enact justice. But we will not let this betrayal damage the raiding season that so many of you have been looking forward to. We are one of the strongest villages on this coast, and we will not be cowed. Next time, if they try this again, we will be ready.”

A murmured assent spreads throughout the crowd, with those closest to him nodding their agreement. They’re his most senior warriors—men who earned their glory in raids many years past, back when his father was the Jarl and the village was smaller than it is now. These men are those he trusts most, besides Castiel, and it warms him to know that he has their support.

“All are welcome to stay and keep vigil over those who ride to Valhalla tonight,” he tells them, his voice softer now. These are words to soothe the grieving, not to reassure those holding anger in their hearts. That time will come. “If anyone wishes to speak with me, you know where to find me.”

He steps back from the crowd, and turns away as it begins to disperse. Some remain by the water, lighting torches by the edge of the sea and taking up a vigil as the evening begins to creep in with the mist. Others drift away towards the village—many with young ones in need of sleep, or tomorrow’s work to be prepared for.

Now that there is no one watching him, nobody looking to him for leadership, Dean lets himself deflate.

And, of course, Castiel is there to support him with a gentle hand on his back and a quick kiss pressed to his temple. “Do you want to go home?” he asks quietly. Dean inhales, then lets his breath out in a long sigh.

“I don’t know.” He really doesn’t. He’s exhausted from thinking himself around in circles—who could have done this, _why_ would they have done this, how can Dean protect his people?—and sleep sounds like a welcome solution right now. But… he lost many good friends in that raid. Friends who should have died in a proper battle, not in a deceitful ambush on the ocean. Some of the bodies hadn’t even returned home with the ships. Their families had had to burn empty boats for a soul whose body lay in the cold clutches of the sea.

“I should keep vigil for a while,” he decides. “But I don’t… I can’t be the Jarl right now. I just need to be me.”

There’s so much _weight_ on his shoulders, and he needs it gone. Just for one night.

Luckily for him, Castiel understands.

Instead of heading to the centre of the village, to the Jarl’s house, Cas leads them towards the edge to the paddocks. Dean watches from the fence while he catches his grey mare—unhappy to be separated from Dean’s black mare but bearing it all at the same—and bridles her.

They don’t bother with any kind of saddle or blanket. Castiel swings up onto her back, then holds out his arm for Dean, who follows him up with a little less grace. He was born to be a warrior, to hold his own on the ocean, unlike Cas who was raised as a shepherd’s son. He’s a fearsome warrior, since Dean has honed his skills himself, but he’s always been much more at home on the land than on the timber of a ship.

That’s why Dean clings tight to Cas, arms wrapped securely around his waist. With the gentlest of prompts, Castiel sends his horse off at a walk, along the path that leads up towards the cliffs. Dean presses his forehead against Cas’s shoulder and feels the warmth of his husband through the fabric of his tunic, the familiar smell calming his churning thoughts.

They pass the northern watchtower, and Cas lifts his hand in acknowledgement to the guards who are stationed by the edge of the village, tasked with keeping it safe. They know that Dean and Castiel can handle themselves—neither of them ever go anywhere without at least one weapon—and so their departure is not impeded in any way, thank Odin. Being questioned by his men is the last thing he wants to deal with today. 

By the time the mare starts the climb up to the cliffs, Dean has already guessed where they’re heading. Cas urges her smoothly into a canter, using his legs to guide her gently in where to go, but she knows. Her gait is surefooted as she climbs up towards the cliffs, and Dean holds tight to Cas as they move with her. Any other day, he’d joke about being in such a suggestive position, their hips moving together with the rhythm of the mare’s canter, but…

Not today. Not after it has been so shrouded with grief and anger. After they have sent many good men to Valhalla today.

Instead, Dean focuses on Cas’s presence, on his warmth and his sturdy build, and the smell that Dean associates with their bed in his house, and with stability and safety. Dean may be the Jarl, but Cas is the one who keeps the village running and keeps Dean from losing his mind on days like these.

By the time they crest the top of the hill, leaving the track and stepping out onto untouched grass, the mare is breathing hard. Castiel slows her to a walk and releases the reins to hang loose against her neck, then reaches for Dean’s hand where it’s wrapped around his waist. 

“How are you feeling, _ást_?” Castiel turns his head slightly as his mare picks her way between the outcropping of stone, and laces their fingers together.

“Tired,” Dean admits, hooking his chin gently over Cas’s shoulder. “How could someone do that to us? The raiding season is supposed to be a time of peace and pride amongst our people. To ambush our ships like that…” He shakes his head defeatedly. “It would never have happened while my father was alive.”

Cas makes a soft sound in the back of his throat. “Dean. That isn’t true. You are a _good_ Jarl. The village has grown, the king is pleased with the harvests and spoils that you presented to him at the last court. Just because some other Jarl is disrespecting the traditions of our fathers does not mean that you are a bad leader.”

The mare ambles to a stop a handful of yards from the edge of the cliff. With the mist in the cove clearing, they can see all the way across the water, to the lights of the village and the last dying flickers of the burial boats.

Up here, it is peaceful and quiet, and Dean can breathe. He presses a quick kiss to Cas’s shoulder, then slides down off the horse’s back. Looking out over the cover, he hears rather than sees Cas follow him, then feels his husband’s warmth by his side.

This is their spot. The first place Dean had met Cas, _properly_ , instead of just knowing him as the shepherd’s son. He’d needed somewhere to escape his father, and had climbed all the way to the clifftops by foot.

_Stupid father. Stupid Jarl rules. Stupid tradition._

_He finally reaches the hilltop, panting from the steep walk. Surely the solitude will help him to calm the thoughts swirling around in his head like dangerous eddies. Here, he can be himself, not_ John Strongsword’s  _son. Not the son of the Jarl._

_Except he’s not alone._

_As he turns towards the clifftop and the cove below, he sees a young man, sitting on a moss-covered boulder while his flock of sheep graze on the hillside behind him. His hair is dark, his clothing simple, and when Dean’s foot knocks against a loose stone and he turns, Dean sees eyes bluer than the ocean._

_His name is Castiel, Dean thinks. He’s never spoken with the boy, but now, face-to-face, he wonders why._

_Castiel smiles at him. Dean climbs up and joins him on the rock, and for a long time, they don’t speak—just sit and watch the still waters of the cove._

“You’re not getting too old to climb up here?” Cas teases as they search in the silvery darkness for the hand and footholds they’ve been using since they were teenagers. Dean swats at his shoulder and rolls his eyes, and Castiel’s answering grin gleams by the light of the moon.

“I’m not old _yet_ , you ass. Just because I’m the Jarl and I’m not going on every raid that leaves the village any more doesn’t mean I can’t climb a godsdamn _rock_.”

Besides, he’s younger even than John had been before taking over leadership of the village from his own father. He’s not  _old_ , and now he’s going to damn well prove it. He digs his fingers into a crack in the boulder’s side and leverages himself up, scrambling up the rest of the way to the flat spot on top. It’s not graceful, but he’s determined to beat Cas up, and he grins down at his husband triumphantly.

“Yes, Dean,” Cas deadpans, a smile teasing at the edges of his lips. “You’re still very capable. I’m so proud that you can beat me in climbing a rock.” He climbs up the rest of the way, slower and more careful than Dean had been. It’s part of what makes him such a good leader by Dean’s side—they balance each other out.

Besides, Cas has the added advantage of being closer to Dean than anyone else in the village, and he knows exactly how to distract the Jarl when it’s needed. Right now, Dean feels just like a teenager again, sneaking up here to spend time alone with Cas. It’s just what he needs, after such a terrible tragedy has happened to his people. To shed the burden of being Jarl just for an hour or two.

He looks down over the village again, to the tiny, dark shapes by the mouth of the cove that is all that remains of the boats that hadn’t fully burned. Some of them still glimmer with the last embers, and it sobers him.

Castiel’s body is a comforting, familiar press against his side. “You didn’t know that would happen,” he says. “It wasn’t your fault. There’s nothing you could have done.” A hint of amusement laces his tone. “The younger warriors would have never forgiven you if you’d held them back from their first raiding season.”

“And now many of them have died without ever tasting a proper battle,” Dean replies.

Far off in the distance, a raven calls. Dean lets his gaze drift over his village, to the torches now burning throughout the streets and paths, a line of them still along the water’s edge with the families mourning their dead. Castiel laces their fingers together.

“It wasn’t your fault,” he whispers again.

The waters of the cove are silent and still beneath the cliffs, the last of the boats flickering with embers and sinking into the depths to join their brothers in Valhalla.

[](https://66.media.tumblr.com/22af637d30f3ef92378e205cabe557ae/tumblr_po2fewk0lq1y3d8hfo2_1280.jpg)

~

They stay at the clifftop until the moon is high in the night sky, the stars shining above. Dean watches the water and the sky for longer than he should, thinking and thinking and trying to figure out the best course of action for his people. His father had taught him when he was young to navigate by the stars—if only they could show him the answer for this, too.

Castiel stays by his side throughout, a silent, steady presence. Once the cold begins to creep into their bones, however, and the night wears on, he shifts his grip and squeezes Dean’s fingers.

“ _Ást_ ,” he says, to pull Dean out of his thoughts. “We should return home. Your people will need you tomorrow, and you are no good to them if you can hardly stay awake.”

He has a point. He always does. Dean slowly stretches his limbs, cold and stiff from sitting in the same spot for hours. “Where would I be without you?” he asks wearily, the ghost of a smile curling his lips.

“Still aimlessly chasing every pretty man or woman in the village, I’m sure,” Cas teases, leaning in to press a kiss to his cheek. “And a much worse Jarl than you are now.”

“How dare you, Cas.”

Their banter is easy, familiar. They’ve been doing this for years, and Cas knows that it’s the best way to take him out of his head. As much as the unjust deaths of his people are weighing on his mind, dwelling on them will keep him from being the leader that they need.

Dean lets out a shuddering breath. He’s so lucky to have Cas.

They climb back down the boulder together, watching out for each other in the pale wash of moonlight instead of the race that the upwards ascent had been. Castiel whistles lowly for his mare, who perks her head up from her nap and comes trotting over. “Good girl, Elisif,” he murmurs, rubbing his hand over her nose. “I’m sorry we kept you up so late.”

She whickers into his hand, and Dean shakes his head. Sometimes Cas has an uncanny ability with animals. He springs up onto her back with ease, and once again Dean grabs his forearm and clambers up after him. The mare, to her credit, doesn’t move or complain, just stands still until Castiel gives her the command to move.

They’re more careful as they pick their way back down the mountain now, with Dean pressing his forehead tiredly into Cas’s shoulder and letting him and Elisif navigate them back down to the village. Many of the torches have gone out by now, though one or two remain by the water’s edge. By the time they return to the horses’ paddock, almost all of the village is dark.

Dean dismounts and leans against the fence as Cas puts the mare back into the paddock and puts away her bridle, then they head back into the village. He straightens his back as they come into view of the watchtower, and tries not to let his exhaustion show. The sentry lifts a hand to acknowledge them, and they pass by along the path.

The village is nearly deserted at this time of night, and they only encounter a loose chicken and a thrall fetching water on their way back to the Jarl’s house. Of all the buildings in the village—aside from the Tinghöll—Dean’s house is the largest, the most carefully built. It has lasted through generations, built back when the village was half the size it is now.

It’s the house Dean grew up in, and now, it’s the house he shares with Cas.

He unlatches the front door and pushes it open, lighting the lamp hanging just inside. It flickers and catches, illuminating the inside of the house with dancing light, throwing into shadow the furniture spread across the living and dining area. Trophies and shields hang along the walls, remnants of Dean’s ancestry, his father’s shield at the end of the progression.

Hopefully it will be many years before Dean’s own is put up there by his successor.

That’s not a line of thinking that is going to lift his spirits, though, so he turns away from the line of shields and instead makes his way towards the sleeping quarters at the end of the room. Behind him, he hears the _snick_ of Cas relatching the door, and then the light flickers and dances across the walls as he lifts the lamp and follows Dean to bed.

The thralls are long asleep, so the water left in the corner of their bedroom has long since gone cold, but Dean doesn’t mind. Silently, he strips off his boots and tunic and pants and steps into his tub, scooping the cold water up against his skin and scrubbing at the grime that has accumulated across the day. He and Cas had helped the grieving families prepare the bodies and boats for their journey to Valhalla, had helped to push the boats out into the cove today, and he had been given the honour of lighting many of the pyres.

Dirt and soot clings to his skin, and he scrubs at it as though he can wash away the memories of today. He can’t remember the last time that so many funeral boats had been sent out into the cove at once—the last great sickness had happened when he was just a child, claiming his mother earlier than had been her time. It had been an unjust end for such a fierce shield-maiden.

Again—not thoughts that are helping Dean settle his mind. Reliving past grief isn’t going to help. Instead, he turns his gaze to Cas, who has also undressed and is standing in his own tub, sluicing cold water over his body. When he catches Dean looking, he pauses, his lips curling up into a smile. In the flickering lamplight, he looks beautiful; lean and strong, the occasional white scar standing out against tanned skin. Dean knows every one by heart.

He steps out of his own tub and stands at the edge of Cas’s, his husband’s eyes following his movements. In that moment, he’s so full of gratitude for his husband, his second in command, his _verr_ , that he’s just… lost for words. How can Cas ever know how much he keeps Dean afloat, how lost he’d be without such a solid foundation?

Cas’s breath hitches quietly as Dean cups his cheek, then leans in to press a soft kiss to his lips. Dean puts every single one of his emotions into that kiss—his gratitude, his grief, his love. Fingers slide into his close-cropped hair and pull him in closer, and Dean sighs into the kiss. 

They stand there until the water on Dean’s skin has dried, until the events of the day truly catch up to him and weigh down his bones with exhaustion, exchanging gentle kisses and holding each other close. Eventually, Dean pulls away, brushing his thumb over Cas’s cheekbone. “ _Ek elska_ _þik_ ,” he says quietly.

Cas smiles and puts his hand over Dean’s. “I know.” He turns his head to kiss Dean’s knuckles. “Go to bed, _ást_. I will join you in a minute.”

Albeit reluctantly, Dean lets his hand drop and steps away, making his way over to their bed with its intricately carved frame and piles of furs. He slides under the bottom blanket and pulls it up over himself, watching Cas as he finishes bathing. Cas steps out of the tub of water and dries himself quickly with one of the cloths placed nearby, then snuffs out the lamp.

They both know their way around their house in the dark, and Dean hears Cas’s quiet footsteps as he makes his way over to the bed, then feels the mattress dip beside him. Naked warmth presses up beside him, and Dean rolls towards Cas, letting himself be held.

Cas pulls the blankets and furs up over them both and presses a kiss to the top of Dean’s head. This is where he is safe, where he can be vulnerable. Whenever it’s just the two of them, with nobody else around, he doesn’t have to be the Jarl.

Even with Cas pressed close, his familiar smell and the rhythm of his breathing usually enough to lull him to sleep, Dean’s mind is still moving, still thinking about that attack and the warriors who lost their lives to a cowardly, underhanded manoeuvre.

By the time he falls asleep, he has made a vow. To himself, to his men, to his village.

Whoever was behind this attack… Dean is going to make them pay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tinghöll: town hall  
> Jarl: leader  
> Ást: love  
> Verr: husband  
> Ek elska þik: I love you
> 
> (all these translations are either from Old Norse dictionaries or taken directly from modern Norse)


	2. Chapter 2

The sun rises early the next morning, and the village with it. Dean’s thralls sneak into their room on tiptoe as soon as the first of the light peeks over the hills to the east, taking out the dirty water and replacing yesterday’s clothes with fresh tunics and pants. Castiel keeps an ear out for them, since his body has long since been conditioned to wake early despite how late he slept, but for now he’s content to lie here in the comfort of his bed for a little while longer. 

Beside him, Dean shifts, pressing his face in against Castiel’s neck. His husband is not quite so accustomed to waking early, having lived the life of the Jarl or the Jarl’s son all his life, but Castiel certainly doesn’t mind these stolen moments in bed together.

He is certainly not going to deny Dean a little more sleep after everything that has happened.

Castiel continues to doze beside Dean, who is pressed in against his side in an expanse of warm skin and a tangle of limbs. It’s only when one of the thralls stumbles under the weight of the tub he’s carrying a few minutes later, the bottom of it slamming against the wooden floor and sending water sloshing over the sides, that Dean jerks awake.

So much for letting him sleep in.

Dean is all wide eyes and tightly-coiled intensity, but as soon as he realises where he is—in bed, in his home, with his husband beside him—that he relaxes. Castiel sighs and lifts his head, fixing his gaze on the apologetic thrall. “Watch your feet next time, Kalle. No harm done, just get someone to help you clean up the water.”

Dean adds, from where he’s now lying back against the bed and rubbing at his eyes, “You owe me a damn good breakfast for waking me up!” He props himself up on his elbows and grins at Kalle so that the kid knows he’s teasing—Dean had taken him from a place of worship across the ocean last raiding season and liked him so much that he gave him a place in their household, but Kalle still doesn’t take mistakes well. Even in the faint morning light and the small lamp on the dresser, Castiel can see his cheeks flush.

“Of course, Jarl Dean. I’ll get it cleaned up straight away.” Quick as a flash, he ducks back out of the room, probably to grab Alette or Rainer.

“He still doesn’t totally trust us, huh?” Dean muses, his gaze on the doorway where the boy had disappeared.

“No, he doesn’t. He’s much better, though. We’ll get there.”

Dean shifts his weight, a sure sign that he’s planning to get out of bed now that he’s awake, and Castiel is quick to snake an arm around his waist. “ _Ást_ ,” he says, pressing kisses along Dean’s shoulder. He hears Dean’s breath hitch when Castiel’s lips brush over his jaw. “Stay in bed with me for a bit longer. There’s no need to be getting up just yet.”

He feels Dean’s hesitation in the tension of his back, the stillness of his breath, but after a few seconds, he relents and sinks back down into Castiel’s embrace. “Only for you, _verr_ ,” he murmurs, and Castiel grins.

“I should hope so.”

Now that he has Dean awake and happy to stay in bed, Castiel keeps pressing kisses into his skin. Dean turns into his embrace, his growing interest showing itself in the press of his erection against Castiel’s hip and the impatient way that Dean threads his fingers through Castiel’s hair and pulls him in for a kiss. He goes willingly, happy to kiss Dean in that lovely, slow, early-morning way that leaves them both happy and breathless.

There’s more than one way to make Dean happy and breathless, though, and his husband certainly doesn’t complain when Castiel breaks the kiss and shifts onto his stomach between Dean’s legs. Dean pushes the blankets and furs back so that he can watch—it’s very possible that the shiver that runs the length of Dean’s body is caused by the cold, but Castiel has more than a small suspicion that it has more to do with the way Castiel takes the head of his cock between his lips.

He teases Dean slowly, dragging his lips along the shaft and swirling his tongue around the head, until Dean’s fingers are tugging on his hair and he’s calling out to any god who’s listening as Castiel swallows him all the way down to the root of his cock. It’s early, and it’s a slow, sloppy job on Castiel’s part, but Dean still comes easily in the quiet morning air with a soft groan. Castiel swallows, simply because he can’t be bothered with cleaning up this early in the morning, and drags the covers up over them with a wicked, sated smile.

Dean’s eyes are still a little glazed, his lips formed into a half-smile and his body loose, relaxed.

Someone knocks on the doorframe, and the furs covering the doorway shift. “Is it safe?”

Castiel laughs, whereas Dean blushes brightly enough to start a fire. “Yes, it’s safe.”

Alette pokes her head into the room, pulling a face when she sees them both curled back up beneath their blankets. “You couldn’t save the lovemaking for _after_ I’d cleaned up the water Kalle had spilled?” she asks, stepping into the room with an armful of cloths. “It’s a wonder none of your thralls have run away yet with the number of times we’ve walked in on you.”

Dean splutters, and Castiel simply laughs. Of the two of them, he’s certainly less reserved about their sex life—though he doesn’t have to worry about commanding the entire village, so. “You don’t run away because we treat you well enough to make up for the mental scarring,” he jokes.

“You have a point there,” Alette acknowledges with a grin, dropping down to her knees by the puddle of water and mopping at it with the cloths. For all her sharp wit and cheeky tongue, she’s a hard worker, and Castiel genuinely likes her, as he likes all their thralls. Having them around at all had certainly taken some getting used to once he had moved in with Dean, but now Alette, Rainer and Kalle are like family. Castiel doesn’t know what he’d do without them. _Dean_ would certainly be at a total loss.

“We’ll be out in a few minutes for breakfast,” Dean says once Alette has finished cleaning up the spilled water. She nods her understanding, gathering the wet cloth up into her arms.

“I’ll tell Rainer,” she says, then disappears back out the door.

“You’re the worst,” Dean grumbles, sinking down under the blankets and pressing his face against Cas’s chest.

“You’re saying that to the person who just gave you an orgasm? And here I was thinking you enjoyed it.”

Green eyes glare up at Castiel from beneath a sleep-rumpled bedhead. “You know what I mean.”

Castiel just hums and kisses the top of Dean’s head. “They’re used to it. Alette just likes to be cheeky about it. Come on, _ást_ , I’m hungry and that means you are too.” He ignores Dean’s grumble as he disentangles himself from his husband and rolls out of bed. The air is cold on his skin, the wooden floor comfortably rough against the soles of his feet, as he stretches his arms high above his head.

“You don’t want me to take care of that for you?” comes Dean’s voice from the bed. When Castiel turns to look over his shoulder, Dean’s eyes are focused low, on Castiel’s erection where it twitches beneath Dean’s gaze.

“I’m sure you can make it up to me tonight,” he says. His stomach chooses that moment to growl impatiently, and he grins. “But for now, I’d rather we finally get to our breakfast.”

“You’re the one who held us up,” Dean grumbles as he follows Castiel out of bed, kissing his shoulderblade and swatting him on the ass as he passes. He starts pulling on the clothes that have been left for them—plain pairs of pants but nicer tunics and belts than usual. They need to look like good leaders today, for their grieving, angry village.

“What are your plans for today?” Castiel asks as he pulls on his pants and reaches for the green woollen tunic that Dean has left him. “Do you want me with you?”

Dean’s shoulders tense, and he pauses in his dressing, thinking. Damn it. He’d been so relaxed in the fragment of the morning that they’ve had together, but now, with the reminder of his duties, Castiel can feel it slipping away.

“I need to speak with my best warriors,” Dean says, pulling his tunic over his head and reaching for the belt. “I would like you there for part of it, because your consul is important to me, but you’re not a raider. Can you talk to the people for me while I’m busy? Listen to what they have to say, share some of your wisdom.” Castiel catches the quickest flash of a smile before it disappears again. “Have words with the sentry guards and the farmers herders who live beyond the village, as well. We need to be safe from an attack.”

Castiel nods, processing it all and trying to plan out his day. “Yes, Jarl Dean,” he says, fastening his own belt. He pulls on a thick pair of socks, then his boots, then leans against the dresser to watch Dean. “Whatever you need, I’m here.”

When he straightens up, Dean’s gaze is soft, though there are still other emotions lying behind it. Grief, anger, pride. “I know, Cas.” He sighs, then straightens his back. “Come on, time to face our thralls.”

By the time they emerge from their room, Rainer is just laying out the last of their food. He looks up as he hears them entering the main space, and greets them with a smile. “Good morning Jarl Dean, Castiel. I hear you’ve been awake for a little while, I wasn’t sure what time you’d want to eat.”

Dean eyes their thrall suspiciously, waiting to see if he’ll comment further, but Rainer simply steps away from the table and clasps his hands behind his back. “It smells good. Thank you Rainer,” Dean says, taking his seat at the head of the table.

It’s much longer than what they usually need, since it has to be large enough to accommodate any guests they may need to entertain, so usually they just stick to one end. Dean’s chair is large and ornate, whereas Castiel’s is a little less fancy, and the thralls sit on wooden stools. They make themselves scarce when Dean and Castiel have company, but for normal meals, Dean has always given them the option to eat here, instead of out in their own quarters.

Their meal is eaten in relative silence this morning; Dean makes quick work of his food, and doesn’t speak, lost in his thoughts. The thralls whisper to each other occasionally between bites of their less lavish breakfast, but despite Alette’s attitude, even she knows not to disturb the Jarl when he’s withdrawn or thinking.

Idly, Castiel wonders if any of them truly understand the magnitude of the attack on their raiding ships. Rainer was born a thrall, Alette had been a gift from the king when Dean had become Jarl, and Kalle has only been with them for a year. Do any of them understand if the village lets itself be cowed, and kept from raiding season? Do they understand the position that Dean is in?

 _Probably not_ , he resolves. He barely understands it himself—the pride that accompanies a successful, bountiful raid, the ultimate goal of reaching Valhalla. He’s just a shepherd’s boy who knows how to wield a weapon, but he’s learning. He’ll help Dean in any way that he can.

Dean’s chair scrapes against the floor, and the three thralls snap to attention, but Dean waves them away. “You guys keep eating. Finish the morning chores, and then you have the rest of the day to yourselves until dinner needs to be prepared. Rainer, I might find you later to serve at the Tinghöll during lunch. Cas and I have things to attend to."

The thralls nod their understanding and Dean stands. Castiel takes that as his cue, and shovels down the last bite of his food before also pushing his chair back from the table and following Dean. The Jarl pauses by the front door, then wordlessly pulls down two fur cloaks from their hooks. Neither are particularly warm, and seem to be more for show than anything. Castiel dons the one he is handed without questioning Dean, and it settles over his shoulders, warm enough to make him comfortable in the cool air that awaits them outside.

Beyond their house, the village is a bustle of energy. Despite what has happened, life must go on as usual, and it’s somewhat reassuring to see evidence of that. A man carrying an armful of hides gives them a wide, respectful berth, and further down the street, a mother sits by the door of their house, braiding her daughter’s hair. Talking, shouting, and the laughter of children all carry on the air. Castiel inhales, lets the smell of the village fill his lungs, then follows Dean to the Tinghöll.

The Jarl is like a man possessed today. He walks with speed and purpose, nodding a greeting and giving the occasional smile to those who acknowledge him, but otherwise saying nothing. If only the burden of responsibility on him were not so great, Castiel would be able to see more of the man he fell in love with instead of the Jarl who must be always thinking of the village first, but… well, he understood as much when he agreed to marry Dean.

There is already a small crowd gathered by the door of the Tinghöll—all people waiting to see Dean, to seek his opinion or await his verdict. They have a long day ahead of them.

The Tinghöll—a place of congregation and festivities during good times in the village, and of councils and gatherings during the bad—is the largest building in the village, and the most important. Older than the house of the Jarl, Dean’s ancestors have ruled from here for over a hundred years, and now Castiel sits by Dean’s side when he does the same.

_“I had this made for you,” Dean says, gesturing with a grin to the chair that now sits beside his own. It’s also made of intricately carved wood, though the back is not quite so high and imposing, and it’s still clear that it’s Dean who is the Jarl, who holds the power._

_Still. He’s had this made for Castiel, so that they can be together, and Castiel can have a hand in the decisions of the village. It touches his heart more than Dean can know._

_“Thank you,_ ást _,” he murmurs, running his fingers over the arm of his new chair. Compared with the wear on Dean’s, the carvings beneath his fingertips feel clear and sharp, and Castiel makes a mental note to thank Ivan the next time he sees him. “It’s beautiful. I love it.”_

 _And when he sits in it for the first time, he’s overwhelmed by the knowledge that Dean loves him, a simple shepherd’s son, so much that he would commission him a special throne, just so that they can lead_ together.

The lamps and torches inside the Tinghöll have already been lit, the floor swept and chairs polished. Melina and Fenja have clearly been hard at work, and while there is no sign to be seen of either of them, Castiel makes a mental note to thank them later. Their work is, as always, immaculate—the very reason they were chosen to serve in the Tinghöll. 

Dean takes his seat at the end of the large hall, and Castiel sits in his own chair to Dean’s right. “I won’t need you here all day,” he says as he adjusts his cloak around himself. Reclining back in the ancient throne, his green eyes blade-sharp and jaw set, he looks every bit the Jarl he was born to be. “I just need your support for a little while.”

And then he gives Castiel a small smile, and suddenly he’s _Dean_ again, just for a fraction of a second. Castiel’s husband, not the powerful Jarl of a huge village.

“Of course, Dean,” Castiel replies, reaching over to give Dean’s hand a quick squeeze. “Anything you need.”

Dean catches Castiel’s hand in his and lifts it to his lips. His eyes sparkle as he presses a kiss to Cas’s knuckles. “Thank you,” he whispers, and then he lets go of Castiel’s hand and turns his attention towards the closed doors. “Okay, let’s get started. Open ‘em up, Fenja.”

The great doors at the end of the hall open, and the people who had been gathered outside begin to file in. Many that Castiel recognizes are warriors, raiders and a handful of renowned shield-maidens, but there are also common-folk interspersed amongst the small crowd. For the day still being so young, there are a lot of people here to speak with Dean, and he certainly has a long day ahead of him.

Dean calls forth the first person, and Castiel settles in for the day.

~ 

The day is, indeed, a long one. Dean speaks with trusted advisors and grieving mothers and young warriors still seeking a spot on the next raid. Most people are here to discuss the attacked ships, whether to ask questions or offer advice (some solicited, some not), but there are also the usual queries; disputes to settle, requests for land or gold or extra resources. Dean listens to each with solemn focus and delivers a just verdict—or politely dismisses those who believe they know better than the Jarl.

Castiel also listens, coming to his own conclusions and giving his advice or insight quietly into Dean’s ear when he asks for it. As an outsider to the politics and power, he brings a different perspective to Dean, who can sometimes be a little stubborn or narrow-minded about some issues.

They get through over half of the people waiting before Dean calls for a break. Castiel’s stomach is starting to grumble impatiently, and he thanks Melina with a smile as she brings out a small table and a platter of food for them. Food is provided along the side tables for those who are still waiting to meet with Dean, and the crowd stands by the doors down the other end of the hall while lunch is had by everyone.

“This is fuckin’ exhausting,” Dean mutters as he reaches for the platter, picking up a piece of meat and popping it into his mouth. “I’ve never had this many people come to see me.”

“If you’re struggling, it’s not showing,” Castiel reassures him. “I think you’ve been fair and listened to everyone we’ve spoken to—except for maybe Ludin.”

Dean groans around his mouthful of food and slumps back against his chair. “That son of a bitch won’t stop bugging me—that’s the fourth fucking time he’s come to ask me for an expansion on his land _this month_. He has plenty already, he doesn’t need _more_.”

Castiel hides his smile and reaches for a piece of bread. “You were very polite with him, and it was a fair judgement. I haven’t heard anything that suggests he needs more land, but I’ll let you know if that changes.” He _is_ Dean’s eyes and ears, after all. He’s good at talking to people, assessing the needs of their village. 

“Thanks, Cas. You can probably go, if you want. I’ll just be finishing up with the people who are still waiting, and then I’ll call a council of my warriors. I need to get their insight on what to do, considering that there may be someone purposely attacking our ships.” Dean’s jaw clenches; there are thunderstorms in his eyes. Whoever attacked their raid during a time of peace has no idea what they’ve done.

“Okay, _ást_. Send for me if you need me, alright?”

They finish up the last of the food, and then Castiel presses a quick kiss to Dean’s cheek and slips out of the hall.

It feels good to stretch his legs—the Tinghöll may be Dean’s domain, but Castiel has always felt more comfortable among the people, in the village itself. He pulls his cloak closer around his shoulders and rolls out his neck, stiff from sitting down for so long, then heads towards the waterfront.

The water is busy today; a couple of the fishing boats are tied up at the end of one of the docks, unloading their catch before they head out one last time. Further down the beach, the raiding ships have been dragged up onto the sand, with Ivan and his team of shipbuilders and carpenters working on making repairs. Aside from that, the sun is out and glimmering across the cove, and it seems to have drawn a large portion of the village down to the water.

Castiel narrowly manages to avoid a gaggle of young children, but a straggler bumps into his shins and thumps back into the dirt. He grins and shakes his head, recognising the wide brown eyes and braided hair. “Sigrunn,” he chastises gently, crouching down and picking the little girl up into his arms, “how many times have I told you to watch where you’re going?”

Sigrunn beams toothily at him and wraps her chubby arms around his neck. “Lots o’ times!” she declares.

“That’s right.” Castiel bounces her gently, supporting her with one arm. “Shall we go find your mother?”

They find Herja out on the docks, helping the fishermen unload their catch. “Sigrunn!” she exclaims when she sees them, dropping the fish she’d been examining into one of the barrels. “Did you run into Castiel again?”

Little Sigrunn nods emphatically, still clinging to Castiel’s neck. She tugs on a lock of hair that falls into her vision, and Castiel can’t help but wince slightly. “Yes, she did. I don’t know how she always ends up getting into mischief—it must have something to do with being the daughter of you and Kjárr,” he teases.

Herja laughs and wipes her hands on the front of her dress, then reaches for her daughter. Sigrunn clings determinedly to Castiel, who gently pries apart her grip and hands her over. “I don’t know what you could possibly mean by that, Castiel,” Herja says, mischief in her eyes. “Kjárr and I are some of the most sane, sensible people to ever live in this village.”

“Says the woman who swam all the way across the cove on a dare, and once single-handedly beat all of the most promising future raiders in practice sparring. No, I can’t see where Sigrunn gets it at all,” he says sarcastically. They move away from where the boats are unloading, and take a seat on the edge of the dock. As soon as she sees her chance, Sigrunn wriggles out of her mother’s grip and jumps back into Castiel’s lap. “Though I do approve of her choice in men so far,” he jokes.

Herja snorts. “Why you’re her favourite, I’ll never know, Cas.” There’s kindness in her voice, though—he’s been friends with her for almost as long as he’s been close with Dean, and while it’s been strange seeing her settle into motherhood after all her antics as a younger woman, she’s still kept that bright, teasing spark.

She’s also wiser than many people give her credit for, though, and she sees through Castiel almost immediately. “So, what brings you here, instead of keeping you by Dean’s side today?” she asks, reaching over to pluck a stray leaf from Sigrunn’s hair before turning her gaze on Cas.

“Dean wanted me to check in on the people after yesterday,” he admits quietly. He winces as Sigrunn wriggles in his lap and digs her knee into his stomach. “Sit still, _barn_.”

Herja sighs, turning her gaze out towards the cove and the open sea beyond. “It’s been tough,” she admits. “No one can remember anything like this that has happened in the past. It’s unheard of for us to attack our own during the raiding season, when our attentions should be focused on the lands far across the sea.”

“Dean mentioned that, yes,” Castiel says quietly. Sigrunn babbles happily to herself and plays with the edges of Castiel’s cloak. “He doesn’t know who would have done such a thing. Did Kjárr tell you anything about the attack?”

“Only that the men who attacked them displayed no markings of their village or alliance. The ships were hiding along the coast, and they weren’t expecting an attack.” She shakes her head. “They didn’t have a chance. The village is… well, we’re in shock, but you probably knew that already. I’m just trying to encourage everyone to go about their day as usual, but a lot of people lost loved ones. Hopefully Odin has permitted them all to enter Valhalla.”

“I’m sure many of them dine with Odin now,” Castiel reassures her. “Or they will be with Freyja in the Fólkvangr. Both are noble ends.” He reaches out to Herja with one arm and pulls her into a hug. “Thank you for reassuring the people. I know I can always count on you.”

Castiel straightens up, and Herja gives him a sad smile. “Any time you need me, _vinr_.”

Sigrunn is reluctant to be handed back to her mother, but Castiel placates her with promises that he will visit again tomorrow, and leaves her and Herja by the docks. The day is getting on, and he has many more people to visit.

He checks in with the shipbuilders down the beach, with the main blacksmith, with the people he meets in the street who greet him with a smile, and even those who don’t. Once he’s made his way through the village, he hikes out to the edges.

The sentries are doing a fine job, armed with their bows and their swords and constantly on alert. “No, Castiel,” they say, “we haven’t seen anything suspicious. A few travellers leaving or entering, people from the village moving around the outskirts. Jarl Dean dispatched the messenger to the king yesterday, but it’ll be a while before he returns.”

Nothing of interest to report there, then. Castiel reminds them of their orders, thanks them for their vigilance, and keeps walking.

Elisif greets him with a whinny when he comes into view of the horse paddocks, and he grins. At least he can count on children and animals to bring him a little bit of light in such a stressful time. “Hello, beautiful,” he calls out to her, and she comes trotting over to the fence, Dean’s mare Ilmr following at a distance.

Castiel only has time for a quick pat (…and some neck scratches, but how can he resist his pushy mare) and then he has to keep moving, if he wants to catch the shepherds up on the hills. He’s a little out of breath when he reaches the top—moving in with Dean and coming down off the hillsides hasn’t been the best for his stamina—but being up here instantly sets him at ease.

He spots a herd of sheep almost immediately, and grins at the figure he can see watching them. “Faðir!” he shouts, and the figure turns towards him, then lifts a hand in greeting.

Síðgrani has always been a solitary man—a little odd, and definitely someone who prefers solitude over the business of the village. It’s rare that Castiel gets to come visit his father, but he does enjoy catching up when he’s able.

“How are the sheep?” he asks once he’s closer. Síðgrani turns to look over his flock.

“They are healthy,” he says. “I watch over them, but otherwise, I do not interfere. They have done well this season.”

The answer doesn’t surprise Castiel—his father has always been a little bit vague. “Good to hear. Did news reach you of what happened to the raid?”

“Yes.” Síðgrani nods. He strokes a hand over his shepherd’s staff, then touches the black feather fastened to the end. “I did hear. A terrible tragedy. What will your Jarl do about it?”

“He’s not sure yet,” Castiel admits. “He sent me out here to tell you to be careful. If you could pass the message on to anyone you see, I would appreciate it.”

“Of course, my son.” Síðgrani turns his piercing blue gaze on Castiel, and for a second, it’s like his very soul is being pried open. “Dean will make the right decision,” Síðgrani says. “The _only_ decision, the decision of a true leader. But you…” He clasps Castiel’s shoulder, and for a second, it sends a shiver down Castiel’s spine. “You will do great things, my son.”

Castiel’s father has always been a little odd, but today is… it feels different. The wind picks up, and Castiel tastes rainstorms across his tongue—but as quickly as it starts up, it disappears again when Síðgrani’s hand falls away from his shoulder. “I promise I will pass on the message,” he says with a smile, “but you need not worry about me. Now tell me, how has life in the village been?”

 It’s easy to get lost in unloading onto his father, in talking about Dean and the responsibilities that come with being the Jarl and the Jarl’s husband. He talks and his father listens, until the sun begins to touch the horizon and Castiel realizes just how late it’s getting. “I’m sorry, _faðir_ , but I should get back to the village. I need to be back with Dean.”

“Of course, Castiel. It was good for you to visit, thank you. Most of the time I am happy watching over my sheep, but it is always nice to see my son.”

Castiel makes his way back down the hill feeling strangely at peace.

~ 

The sun is setting over the entrance to the cove by the time Castiel is back in the village. People are packing up for the day, making their way indoors to eat with their families. Castiel isn’t exactly sure where he can find Dean, but as he reaches the centre of the village, he sees that the torches outside the Tinghöll are still lit. Dean is still there.

When he opens the door and slips inside, he’s faced with a scene he had not been expecting.

Dean and his warriors are gathered around the long table offset to the side of the hall. There are horns of ale in their hands, and they talk and carouse with energy. Something has lifted their spirits—but what?

Dean is seated at the head of the table, grinning and talking whenever someone engages him, but otherwise just watching his men. His expression is difficult for Castiel to decipher—there are many emotions churning inside him, that much he can tell.

He’s only standing by the door for a few seconds before Dean spots him, and his husband’s eyes widen. His lips move, as though he’s saying something under his breath, and then he stands. A few of his men notice as Dean leaves the table, but once they follow his eyeline and see Castiel waiting, they turn back to their celebrations.

“What is all this about?” Castiel asks as Dean reaches him, his brows pulled down into a puzzled frown. “Why are they so happy?”

Dean shifts on his feet. It’s almost as though the Jarl looks… guilty. As though he’s hiding something. Castiel’s suspicions increase.

“Can I talk to you about this outside?”

_What in Odin’s name is going on?_

He nods, stepping back out of the hall. Dean follows him, then takes his hand and pulls him around to the side of the building. There are no torches here, and Dean’s face is shaded in the dusk light. He bites his lip, and when Castiel realizes that Dean won’t look him in the eye, he knows something is up. “Dean,” he says sharply—it’s not like his husband to act like this. They’re a team, and everything Dean knows, he shares with Cas. “Tell me what’s going on.”

Dean lets out a long breath, and finally meets Castiel’s gaze. There’s trepidation and nervousness in those green depths. The silence drags out between them until the air quivers with the tension of it.

“I’m sending another raid,” he finally says, his voice quiet. His gaze drops away again, and he rubs a hand over his face.

Sending another raid? That explains why the men are happy, then—they’ll get the chance to fight, either on the distant shores if their raid isn’t attacked, or against the scum who slaughtered their friends if they do happen to meet their enemies on the sea again.

But if that’s a good thing… Why will Dean still not meet his gaze?

“And?” he prompts—he knows there’s more to it than Dean is letting on. He knows Dean too well.

Dean looks out towards the cove, where the sun is setting in brilliant fire and setting the water ablaze. His shoulders are slumped; he looks weary.

“And I’m going with them.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Barn: child  
> Vinr: friend  
> Faðir: father


	3. Chapter 3

Cas isn’t happy.

He’d known that the news wasn’t going to go down well, and he’d been trying to figure out how to break it gently to his husband all afternoon, but by the time Cas had returned to the Tinghöll, he was still at a loss at how to tell him.

The straight answer may not have been his best option, though, because now Castiel isn’t talking to him. He’d simply stared at Dean, an unreadable expression in his stormy blue eyes, then turned abruptly on his heel and stalked off. Usually, seeing Cas pissed is all kinds of hot, but not when it’s directed _at_ Dean, and not when the cause of that anger is, Dean suspects, driven by something deeper.

Either way, he’s well and truly fucked, and not in the fun way.

His duty demands that he return to the Tinghöll for at least a little bit longer, if only to conclude and disband the carousing that his meeting has turned into. His warriors grumble as they finish the last of their drinks and make their way out of the hall in twos and threes, but Dean feels no remorse. Cas is far more important than their alcohol and their egos.

As soon as they’ve all left, Dean gives the instruction to Melina and Fenja to clean up and close up the Tinghöll, then quickly makes his exit and heads in the direction of his house. He’s not looking forward to whatever might be greeting him when he gets there, but the longer he puts it off, the more Castiel’s anger will grow, and Dean does _not_ want to face that.

“Cas?” he calls as he opens the front door. He’s not sure where in the house his husband is, but as it turns out, he doesn’t have to look far.

The flickering lamps that have been lit along the walls cast dancing shadows across Cas’s face. He’s sitting in Dean’s chair at the head of the table, with Dean’s best shield sitting on the table in front of him. He just stares at it—doesn’t otherwise move.

“Cas?” Dean ventures again, this time softer. He doesn’t want to provoke a fight, but he can feel the storms growing on the horizon, suggesting that that’s what he’s going to get, whether he likes it or not. “Are you okay?”

Castiel lifts his gaze to Dean, and it seems to bore right into his soul. He takes a step back.

“Am I _okay_?” Cas growls, his lip lifting in a snarl. “You’re leaving me, when you _know_ that many men from the last raid didn’t make it home to their families. This isn’t just some standard raid—these are seasoned Viking warriors we’re up against, and you want to put your life on the line! I know I’m just a stupid shepherd, but I don’t understand how you could choose Valhalla over me. I don’t want to be hanging your shield on that wall—“ He gestures furiously at the far wall and the many shields that adorn it— “until I’m old and grey, and preferably not at all. But know this, _Jarl Dean_ …”

He pushes back from the table, the chair legs screeching against the floor, and crosses the distance between them in long strides until he’s crowding into Dean’s personal space. “If you die on that raid,” he hisses, jabbing his finger hard into Dean’s chest, “I will never, _never_ forgive you.”

“Cas,” Dean starts, and his voice breaks even on that one syllable. “I’m sorry, I—”

“ _No_.” Cas’s voice is a low, _furious_ growl. “You do not get to defend yourself right now. You made me a promise, the night we married, that you would not put yourself in harm’s way. I cannot lead this village in your absence, your brother has a place with the king, and we have no sons who could become Jarl. If something happens to you…”

Castiel trails off, his teeth gritted like he can stave off the emotions threatening to overwhelm him with sheer willpower. His anguish is palpable, and the knife of guilt twists in Dean’s stomach, but he knows he has no other choice. “Nothing is going to happen to me,” he promises quietly, cupping Cas’s face with one hand. “I _promise_ , Cas.”

Cas’s exhale is shaky, and his jabbing hand now curls into the fabric of Dean’s tunic. Before he can react, he’s being pulled in for a kiss, and if he hadn’t guessed just how angry and scared Cas is before, he certainly knows now. Their lips crash together, and Cas is all force and teeth and intensity, so much so that it steals the breath from Dean’s lungs. It’s all he can do to hold on and not be swept away by the current.

[](https://66.media.tumblr.com/b92be52afbc972ed9a9e3205e73401a8/tumblr_po2fewk0lq1y3d8hfo7_1280.jpg)

Strong hands push him back until Dean is pressed up against the table, the edge digging hard into the backs of his thighs. Still, though, he doesn’t protest—if this is what Cas needs, to push and pull and take, to be in control instead of having to watch helplessly, then this is what Dean will give him.

Cas kisses him, hands pulling Dean in close and pinning him back against the table, their bodies pressed close together, until he has nothing left to give. Slowly, the fight dies out of him. Every kiss is less bruising, less intense than the last, until finally their lips are just brushing.

Dean presses his forehead against Cas’s and holds him close as the last of the fight drains out of him. “I’m sorry, _ást_ ,” he whispers against his husband’s lips, so quietly that it could be mistaken for just a breath of air. “You know that if I had another option, I would take it.”

For the second that Cas meets his gaze, those blue eyes are full of pain. “You could stay here. With me,” he whispers, his eyes dropping to Dean’s lips, then slanting away.

“I can’t send my warriors out into such a dangerous situation while I stay in safety. This isn’t just another raid—our enemies are too strong, and they know our weaknesses.” His heart aches at the sight of his beloved so upset, but Dean knows he has to stay strong. He’d known that when his father had died, when he’d married Cas. The village, and his people… they have to come first. 

Cas shudders, his fingers twisting weakly in the front of Dean’s tunic. His eyes close, and he leans against Dean as if it’s the only thing keeping him upright.

For a long time, they stand there together in the flickering lamplight, simply holding each other.

~

Preparations begin early the next morning. Cas had fallen asleep firmly on his own side of the bed, his back turned away from Dean, and while it hurts, he can’t blame him. His husband is quiet as they dress side-by-side and leave their bedroom for breakfast. Sensing the mood, their thralls are quiet too, and the drop of a coin could be heard in the dining area as they eat.

Still, unhappiness aside, Cas isn’t one to put that before his duties. He’s by Dean’s side from the very second they step out the door, always knowing exactly what Dean needs or is about to ask of him. It’s amazing be so in tune with someone, and it helps Dean immensely, but his heart aches every time he catches a glimpse of that well-hidden sadness in Castiel’s eyes.

Dean takes every available opportunity to be close to Cas, or to steal little moments to check in with him. Every time, Cas insists that he’s fine with that same look in his eyes that splinters his heart just a little more. His father had never told him that being the Jarl would be this hard—but they’ve never faced an unknown threat like this, either.

Gods, he’s being pulled in two different directions, and it hurts more than he’d ever thought possible.

News of the new raid spreads throughout the village like fire, and soon enough everyone knows. The young ones are angry that they have been left out, of course, but Dean needs his best warriors on this raid, and there’s no room for impatient, brash young men intent on proving themselves. Besides, if the last raid was defeated so easily by their unknown attackers, Dean needs his best men on board with him if he stands any chance of making it back to Cas.

If there was an easier way to do this, he would take it, but after spending all of yesterday thinking and talking with his men, he knows this is his only option. He cannot let their enemies think that the village has been bested, and that their warriors have been cowed into submission, spending the long moons of the raiding season confined to the village.

No, they must stand, and fight, and die with their pride if that is what it comes to.

He doesn’t share that mindset with Castiel, though—there’s no need to make his husband more upset. Cas may know how to fight, but he has no warrior’s heart. The need to avenge his fallen warriors beats in Dean’s heart and pulses through his veins.

They oversee the repairs of the ships and the storing of weapons and provisions all day, making sure that everything is as it needs to be. If the raid is successful, and their ships aren’t attacked, they’ll need enough supplies to make it to the foreign lands. Over there, they’ll be able to stock back up before they can come home.

Success means Dean will be away from his husband for many weeks, but it is a far better option than failure.

Cas stays by Dean’s side for the whole day, quietly giving orders and discussing various aspects of the raid with people, but once the sun begins to dip towards the horizon, and Dean looks around for him… suddenly, he can’t see him anywhere. That quiet, constant presence has disappeared.

“Have you seen Cas?” he asks one of the men sitting outside his house, carefully sharpening his axe. The man shrugs and shakes his head, and Dean continues on. No one else has seen Cas, and by the time he’s back at their house, there’s a worried frown creasing his brows.

Rainer and Kalle are sitting on the floor by the hearth with Dean’s weapons and shields spread out around them, carefully cleaning and sharpening everything. “Evening, Jarl,” Rainer greets him with a smile, whereas Kalle just silently turns his gaze away from the shield in his hands and up towards Dean.

“Evening,” Dean says back distractedly. “You guys haven’t seen Cas around, have you?”

Rainer shakes his head apologetically, but Kalle pauses, thinking for a second. “He was here while I was making the fire,” he says quietly, in his soft, odd accent. “He left with a thicker cloak and a bundle of food, and said something about needing some quiet. Somewhere to think.”

Dean stares at him for a few seconds, but it doesn’t take long at all for him to figure out where Cas has gone. He sighs heavily, scrubs a hand over his face, and then gives his thralls a tired smile. “Thank you. I think I know where he is.”

He should have taken more time to check in with Cas today, he now realizes. This is hard on his husband, and he needs Dean’s support and reassurance now more than ever.

It doesn’t take Dean long to swap his cloak for something more suited to the chill night he can feel rolling in off the ocean, and to pack some of the food Alette is making into a bag for himself. “Eat without us,” he tells her, then slips out the door and starts walking in the direction of the paddocks.

~

Dean may not be as skilled a horseman as Cas, but he still manages to make it up the hill on Ilmr’s back. The sun is setting over the ocean, and it illuminates the cluster of boulders nestled in the scrub by the cliff in burnt reds and golds. Their shadows stretch long across the ground, and Dean follows the black and the grey up to where Castiel is sitting, perched at the top and looking out over the cove to the ocean beyond.

When Elisif sees Ilmr, she lifts her head and whinnies in greeting. Even from here, Dean sees Castiel’s back stiffen, but he doesn’t turn around. He knows they’re here, though, and Dean sighs. He doesn’t want to have this conversation with Cas again. If there was an easier option, he would take it, and he hates hurting his  _verr_ ’s heart like this.

There’s no way to know how Cas is going to react to Dean’s presence. He may as well just get the waiting over with—whether Cas is going to yell, stay silent, or send him away completely, Dean deserves it. He lets out a heavy sigh, makes his way over to the base of the boulders, and starts climbing.

When he gets to the top, he finds Cas sitting cross legged on the stone with his bundle of food unwrapped in front of him. He doesn’t look over, just keeps staring at the horizon. In the setting sun, his profile is sharp, dark lashes framing bright blue eyes.

“You didn’t tell me you were leaving,” Dean says quietly. He settles into a comfortable position on the rock, watching Cas.

Seconds pass. Castiel inhales, then exhales. Without looking over at Dean, he says, “I wanted to be alone.”

It hurts—but Dean had expected it to. His jaw flexes, and he swallows, but presses on. “What can I do? I know… I know I’ve betrayed your trust. I wouldn’t do it if I didn’t have a reason. But I want to do everything I can to make it right.”

He’s known Cas for years, even before they got married, before they were a couple. They’ve never been caught in a situation like this, and it makes Dean sick to his core.

“I don’t know, Dean,” Cas sighs. His voice is soft, like the hiss of waves against the shoreline. “I really don’t. I know you have to—or you _think_ you have to—do this for your village but… that doesn’t mean I have to like it. What if I never see you again?” His frame shudders with an exhale, and his eyes close. Dean wants to badly to pull him in close and just _hold_ him, but he doesn’t know if he can.

“I became your husband because I love you,” he whispers. “Not for the power or the prestige, not to spite your father, not to steal you away from all the more eligible men and women.”

_Cas looks amazing. He’s dressed in the best clothes Dean has ever seen him wear—Cas had said his father had found them somewhere, but when Dean asked about it and offered to cover the cost, Síðgrani had simply waved him away with a twinkle in his eye. He’s grown his hair out longer than usual for the wedding, and parts of it are braided back away from his face. The parts that have been left frame his eyes perfectly._

_Dean carries his father’s sword by his side. He wishes that John could have seen this day, but he knows that never could have happened. Cas is a man, and a shepherd’s boy—a worse offence, in John’s eyes. He’d never approved._

_But now Dean is the Jarl, and he can marry whoever he wishes._

_They exchange swords, Cas’s family sword razor-sharp and expertly crafted, then rings. Dean pulls him in for a sound kiss and those surrounding them erupt into cheering and celebrations. Sam, over to Dean’s right and freshly ridden in from the king’s city, shouts louder than anyone._

_“I promise you, Cas,” Dean whispers against his new_ verr _’s lips, holding him close. “I love you. I’m yours, forever.”_

Cas clears his throat, and a muscle jumps in his jaw. “I put my trust in you,” he says. His voice cracks. “And now you’re leaving. And I don’t quite know what to do with that knowledge.”

Fuck, every word feels as though it twists the knife further into Dean’s gut. “I know,” he rasps. “Trust me, Cas, if there was anything else I could do, any other option—”

“Yeah,” Cas says quietly, his voice wobbling. “I know, Dean. It’s just… something I have to come to terms with. You serve your village before me, I understand that.” His lips twist up into a bitter smile. “That doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt.”

Dean doesn’t know what to say to that. The silence between them stretches out as the rays of the setting sun grow longer, and the sky begins to dusk. After a little while, Dean shifts, quietly scooting himself closer to Cas until their shoulders are brushing.

He holds his breath, waiting—and then Cas sighs and leans his weight against Dean’s shoulder, and all the breath leaves his body. “If you die, I’m coming to Valhalla myself.” Cas turns his head, and Dean finds himself caught in his gaze. It’s serene and calm, but there’s a rippling undercurrent of strength, anger, stubborn determination, just below the surface. “I don’t care if I have to fight Odin himself to do it. You’re not allowed to die.”

“Noted, _ást_.”

“ _Ást_ ,” Cas repeats softly. His eyes drift back out to where the setting sun is lighting the ocean on fire. “Stealing my name for you, are you?” The corner of his lips curls up in the ghost of a smile, and even though it’s slow and tired, it’s _there_. That’s what matters.

“Why not?” Dean lifts his arm and wraps it around Castiel’s shoulders—tentatively at first, but more confidently when Cas doesn’t protest it. “I do love you, more than even the gods know.”

Cas hums quietly. “And I you, Dean.”

They sit in silence and finish the food they brought with them as they watch the sun set until it’s completely gone from the horizon, and then they climb back down their boulder and ride back into the village.

~ 

The raid leaves on a cold, misty morning, three days later.

Dean stands on the edge of the ship where it’s moored against the docks, coiling up a loose length of rope and overseeing the loading of supplies into the ships. Cas is nearby, his back to Dean as he directs people. His voice carries, gentle but powerful, and for a few seconds, Dean just watches.

He’s trying his best to memorize his husband. He’s not a fool—he knows that this raid could end badly. It’s a risk he weighed up before making his decision. Even if it doesn’t, though, Dean will still be going weeks without seeing him, so he’s trying his best to store away everything safely in his mind.

The cadence of his voice when he says _ást_. The strong, stormy blue of his eyes that seems to shift without rhyme or reason. The feeling of Cas’s hands against his skin.

_“Fuck, Cas!” Dean gasps out, his nails digging into Castiel’s shoulders as his husband moves deep inside him. Pleasure sparks across his body, and his toes curl as Cas hits that_ perfect  _spot inside him that makes him see stars. “More,_ verr _, please.”_

_Cas’s lips press against Dean’s skin, his throat, his jaw. He grinds his hips in deeper, and Dean tips his head back against the pillow. His lips part, and he cries wordlessly into the air between them as he comes._

_“I’ve got you,” Cas whispers, then kisses Dean deeply,_ desperately _. His hips stutter, and Dean holds him close as he comes, his cry muffled against Dean’s throat._

Ek elska þik, _Dean thinks, as he presses soft, sex-drowsy kisses to Castiel’s hair._ I don’t want to leave you.

Dean clears his throat and shifts his stance. He can feel his cheeks blushing—now is probably not the best time to be thinking of last night. The time after, though, when they had been tired and tangled up, completely inseparable, just talking…

God, he wishes he didn’t have to leave.

Further down along the dock, someone drops a barrel of salted meat, and it hits the wood of the dock with a thud and a sharp _crack_. “Careful!” Dean shouts, stepping neatly off the edge of the ship and down onto the dock. “We need those in one piece, Ingvar.”

“Sorry, Jarl Dean!” comes the reply—the barrel is quickly checked for damages, then loaded up onto the nearest ship. Dean heaves out a long sigh, and when he turns back towards his boat, he finds Cas by his side. [](https://66.media.tumblr.com/3df345f0f1dc4afbf9200d6d88922662/tumblr_po2fewk0lq1y3d8hfo3_1280.jpg)

“You okay?” his husband asks quietly.

Dean shrugs one shoulder and answers with, “I don’t know.” It’s honest, at least, if not overly helpful. “It’s nice to be going out to sea again, but… I wish it wasn’t under these circumstances.”

“I understand that.” Cas steps in closer and takes Dean’s hand, lacing their fingers together. It’s just the point of contact that Dean needs right now, and he leans against his husband’s side.

“I’m going to bring you back the finest gifts you’ve ever seen,” he muses quietly, “to make up for leaving you. I’ll pile my boat high with everything you could ever want.”

Castiel turns his serious blue gaze on Dean. It’s penetrating and imploring and Dean feels it right down to his soul.

“All I could ever ask for is for you to return unscathed,” he says, his voice soft; vulnerable.

Dean pulls him close and kisses him soundly. Cas’s fingers curl into the thick fur of his cloak, holding him close enough that they feel inseparable. Each of them kisses like a drowning man, desperate for air, and Dean would be happy if he never had to let Cas go.

But he does.

When the ships unmoor, and his warriors begin the call to start rowing out of the cove, Dean can still feel the impression of Castiel’s lips against his own.

He watches the shoreline, his gaze fixed on his husband and his hand raised in farewell, as Cas grows smaller and smaller in the distance, becoming nothing more than a speck and then disappearing entirely. Then he turns towards the bow, forces down his churning emotions, and fixes his eyes on the horizon.

~

With Dean and many of the raiders gone, the village is quiet. Castiel spends his days taking up those of the Jarl’s duties that he feels comfortable with fulfilling—mostly making decisions and settling disputes, since he’s accustomed to undertaking those tasks already. He also tries to spend more time around the village, talking to friends, strangers, thralls alike.

It’s nice to be spending more time with his people, now that the village is less populated. He also makes sure to venture beyond the boundaries of the village—talking to the warriors who were left to guard the borders, and beyond, to the farmers and herders along the outskirts. When he stops by his father’s small, humble house on the hillside, Síðgrani is nowhere to be found, and his hut looks as though it hasn’t been touched in days. That’s not unusual, though—he’s always disappeared at strange times, even when Castiel was a child. Now that he’s living with Dean, his father must take his flocks further afield, to new pastures.

That doesn’t matter, though. What matters is that Castiel is getting out and meeting with the people he’s helping to rule over, and it’s a good feeling.

It doesn’t help to fill the hole that Dean has left in his absence, though.

Every night, Castiel returns to a bed that is too large, too empty, too cold. He presses his face into Dean’s pillow and breathes in his smell, and that helps to remind him of his husband. After a few days, however, it grows faint until it’s almost untraceable, and Castiel is back to his lonely misery.

[](https://66.media.tumblr.com/a8937204ca927eb9c8ad94806effa82a/tumblr_po2fewk0lq1y3d8hfo4_1280.jpg)

He hasn’t been without Dean for this long since he travelled inland with Sam to see the king, and _that_ journey hadn’t been nearly as fraught with danger as this one. So he does what he can to distract himself from wondering, _worrying_ , about Dean, until he has nothing else to do and his thoughts catch up to him.

Those nights are hard. Sometimes, when he can’t sleep, he’ll stoke the fire and sit by the hearth and carve, anything and everything that comes to his head—or he’ll sing under his breath, all the tales of old—or he’ll sharpen and resharpen his own weapons. Routine activities that take him out of his own head until his eyelids finally start to droop, and he drags himself back to bed on weary feet.

No matter how much his thoughts and worries play on his mind, though, and how desperately he seeks peace from them… He can’t bring himself to return to their spot on the hilltop. Not without Dean.

It’s been almost a week without Dean now, and Castiel feels his absence acutely as he rolls out of bed in the morning. There’s no one to cuddle with, or to tease, and he dresses by himself. Last night had been a bad night—his dreams had been plagued by images of steel and blackness and the cloying, overwhelming feeling of fear. Even after getting up and finishing the little wooden raven he’s been carving, his mind still hadn’t settled fully.

Cas knuckles at his eyes, forces back a yawn, and makes his way out into the main hall area for breakfast.

Rainer is absent—he was gone when Kalle woke up, apparently, but he’s probably just running errands. With only Alette and Kalle keeping him company, though, the meal is an even quieter affair than it usually is with a full household. Castiel sighs morosely and sends up a thought to Odin, hoping that wherever Dean is, he’s safe and well—and missing his husband and village enough to be done with raiding for a long time after this.

Whether Odin delivers on or even hears his plea, Cas doesn’t know, but he feels a little better for it anyway.

“I’ll be back later,” he tells his thralls after breakfast, heading for the door and grabbing his cloak on the way. He’s not sure what he’s going to get up to today—perhaps he’ll just see where the mood takes him. Wherever he’s needed, that’s where he’ll go.

As it is, he’s talking with the blacksmith about the shortage of ore needed for new weaponry when the calls begin to ring out.

There are ships in the cove.

Castiel is on his feet immediately, skidding out of the blacksmith’s hut and sprinting away down the street before the poor man can even realize what’s going on. As the acting Jarl of the village, he needs to be there for whatever is happening right now.

He’s not even sure exactly what that is; if it’s enemy ships, that’s bad, since they’re currently short many of their best warriors.

If it’s their own ships, though…

That means they turned back before ever reaching the foreign lands.

Castiel’s heart sinks into his stomach as he thinks about why they—why _Dean_ —would have made that decision.

Dirt and stones kick up beneath his feet as he runs, outstripping everyone else who is running down to the waterfront, desperate to see the ships, desperate to _know_. He can taste the salt on his tongue as he grows nearer, and pushes himself more, until finally he bursts out from between the houses and onto the sand and silt of the beach.

In the mouth of the cove, there are three ships.

Four had left the village not even a week ago.

And from what Castiel can see of the ragged sails catching pitifully in the wind, the three are definitely not enemy ships.

_Gods, no_.

Castiel forces himself into action, even though his legs feel like lead, and he wants nothing more than to collapse onto the ground. “Send the boats out to meet them, they may have wounded men!” he shouts, his legs carrying him down towards the water and along the wood of the closest dock.

The ships quietly creep in from amongst the fog; the figures who man them are unnaturally still, dark silhouettes against the grey. Castiel scans them anxiously as they grow closer, searching for the face he aches most to see.

“Is your Jarl there?”

The voice comes from Edda, the old fisherwoman. She’s crouched by the edge of the dock, something nestled gently in the folds of her cloak. When Castiel drags his eyes away from the ships for a second, he sees that it’s one of the village’s ravens. One of her wings is damaged and bloody, and she’s missing feathers in places. Her breaths are shallow, and Edda strokes her head gently. “She flew hard to guide them back home,” she says quietly.

Castiel swallows, and looks back out at the ships. “I—I can’t see him. But they’re still far away—he might still be there, right? There’s still a chance.” 

He can feel Edda watching him, can feel her sympathy, her sadness. She doesn’t say anything, though, and for that, he’s thankful.

Let him hold onto his hope for as long as he can.

The smaller boats row out to meet the ships, and come back in with injured warriors—wounded by swords, axes, arrows.

No one who returns to the shore will look at Castiel. He’s afraid to ask, but he thinks he already knows. He might be sick.

The ships come ever closer, taking proper form. The sails are tattered and slashed in places, and the edges of the hull are splintered and damaged. There’s no doubt that a terrible fight took place on board—but Castiel is selfish. In this instant, he isn’t the Jarl, or the acting Jarl. He’s simply Dean’s husband, and he wants to know:

_Did he make it?_

No one on the ships will meet his eyes. He can’t see Dean anywhere, not in any pair of green eyes, or any quick, dazzling smile, or freckles like the constellations of the night sky. His _verr_ is nowhere to be seen.

Castiel sinks to his knees, his mind buzzing numbly. _Dean is gone, Dean is gone, Dean is gone_.

Whispers are permeating the crowd now, word brought back from the slurring lips of the wounded. _So many died_ , the whispers say. _They made a point to capture Jarl Dean alive, and anyone who got in their way was killed._

_He may as well be dead_.

Someone wails in the crowd, and Castiel feels a low, anguished sound claw its way out of his throat. It’s grief and loss and pure heartbreak, and he digs his nails into his palms until they draw blood. He wants to scream, to scream forever and never stop until his grief swallows him whole.

_Dean is gone_.

~ 

Dean hurts. His body aches, and the world swims fuzzily around him as he tries to force open his eyes.

He’s moving, a rhythmic up-and-down that sends the world spinning and brings bile to his throat. A groan escapes his lips. _Where the fuck_ …

The last thing he remembers are the ships. The fight.

_“I want the Jarl alive!”_

So many of his men are dead.

But not Dean.

He’s not yet sure if that’s a good thing… or if that means his fate will be even worse.

“He’s awake.” The gruff voice comes from somewhere above him, and Dean tries to pull himself further into consciousness. Through his bleary vision, he can see the wooden planks of a ship’s hull, and the black boots just in front of his face. When he tries feebly to move his battered arms, twisted behind his back, rope bites cruelly into his wrists.

“Make sure he stays unconscious. Hit him with the staff of your axe again if you have to.”

There’s no need. Dean is already sinking back under, the throbbing of his head proving too much for him to stand.

The darkness claims him once again.


	4. Chapter 4

Castiel calls an emergency meeting with the warriors who returned. He can’t bring himself to sit in Dean’s chair—instead, they gather around the long table in the Tinghöll, and Castiel listens to their stories.

It had happened exactly how the first raiders had told it. They had been making their way north, keeping to the coast until they reached the winds that would carry them west. The enemy ships had been lying in wait—but even though the second raid had been larger, a sure match for the forces that had defeated the first raid…

The number of enemies who met them on the ocean were far greater, and far outnumbered Dean’s warriors. They hadn’t stood a chance.

The strange, unidentified warriors had boarded them, killing anyone in their way. Dean had been at the forefront, fighting just as hard as any of his men, but as soon as the enemies realized who he was…

“There was a man on the other ships,” Kjárr says. His arm is securely bound, injured from the sharp steel of an axe blade. “He was dressed better than anyone else there. Didn’t carry any weapons. As soon as he spotted Dean… he told his men he wanted him alive. They killed anyone who got in their way, and Dean put up a valiant fight. Odin himself would be proud. But one _huglausi_ snuck up behind him and knocked him out cold. They dragged him over to their ship, and then just… left.”

“We managed to kill some of them.” Svaraldr’s gruff voice comes from the end of the table. “But they got over half of us. Many good men died, and they had us beaten from the moment they laid eyes on us.”

Castiel is silent, desperately trying to process everything. Hearing tell of what had happened to Dean—his _ást_ , his _verr_ —has him wanting to scream, to cry, to pick up a sword and kill whoever has done this to his beloved. He may have been alive after the attack, and that is a small mercy, but there’s no way of knowing what will happen to him now. What _could_ be happening to him now, right this second.

If he focuses on that, though, it will eat him alive, so he locks those thoughts into a chest in his mind and shoves it down deep, where it cannot resurface.

It doesn’t really work, but at least he’s a little more composed. He needs to try his best to lead his village, even if he feels like he’s adrift without a sail.

But one detail circles his mind, round and round, insisting he pay attention to it.

The enemy numbers had been far greater than the first attack—easily enough to defeat the larger force that Dean had been sailing with. But if that had been the case…

How had their enemies known that?

Castiel grits his teeth and curls his hands into fists where they rest on the table. How had their enemies known that, indeed. He thinks he has some idea of how.

And now, he realizes, he can’t trust anyone.

He looks around the table, at each of the warriors in turn. Kjárr, husband of one of his best friends. Ingvar, one of the kindest people Castiel has ever known. Svaraldr, the oldest warrior, still able to put the young ones in their place. Róki, son of the best village weaver, who had always yearned for the sea. Froði, the best tactician in the village.

He knows each one of them. He put Dean’s life, and the safety of their village, in their hands.

Has one of them betrayed him?

Castiel stands abruptly. He tries to hide the shake in his hands. “I need to think. I will meet with you tomorrow. Thank you all for your counsel.”

And then he turns and leaves, the weight of every single warrior’s gaze on his back as he exits the Tinghöll.

Night has fallen, and the streets are quiet. Those who lost friends or family members are preparing the funerals for their loved ones; building boats, collecting tributes and sacrifices. Some have bodies to burn, and some do not. It only makes their loss all the more raw, to know that the dead have not been allowed a proper send-off to the gods’ realm.

Castiel walks through his grieving village, and he thinks of his missing husband and chokes back tears. He must walk with his head strong, his back straight, and lead his people even when he feels like crumbling.

Alette and Kalle greet him when he returns home, their brows creased in worry. “You haven’t seen Rainer, have you, Castiel?” Alette asks.

Rainer? Castiel shakes his head. “No, I haven’t. I’ve been busy with other matters.” They’re not so strict with their thralls that they demand they return to their sleeping quarters every single night, and it’s not unusual for Rainer to stay out every so often. Castiel suspects that there’s a reason—a very _female_ reason—and doesn’t pry, although usually the thralls do still ask permission if they want to do anything out of the ordinary. Castiel hadn’t heard anything from Rainer about leaving tonight.

“I’m sure he’s fine,” he says tiredly, shaking his head. “Gods know I’ve had more pressing matters to think about today. I—”

He’s interrupted by a knocking on the door.

It’s frantic, _pounding_ , the person outside demanding or begging to be let in.

Castiel gestures silently for Kalle and Alette to arm themselves. They do so with fear in their eyes, Alette determinedly hefting a hammer too large for her small stature.

Slowly, carefully, Castiel makes his way over to the door and opens it.

When he sees who’s on the other side, his heart soars with relief.

“Sam.”

Dean’s brother has grown since they last saw him. His hair is braided back out of his eyes, and he looks dirty and travel-worn, his face set in grim lines. Still, Castiel has never been happier to see him.

“Hey, Cas,” Sam says, crossing the threshold and pulling Castiel into a bone-crushing hug. Cas hears the thralls drop their weapons, recognising Sam as a friend, not foe. “I heard about the attack, and I came as soon as I could convince the king to let me leave. I’m sorry it took me so long to reach here.” He pulls back, then looks past Castiel to the dining hall, as though he’s looking for someone.

“Where’s Dean?” he asks.

 _Gods, he doesn’t know_. Castiel feels like he’s been punched, his heart sinking just as fast as it had lifted.

Sam must see it in his face, because his eyes widen, and he reaches out to brace himself against the doorframe as though he no longer trusts his own legs. “Is he dead? The reports didn’t say that the Jarl has died, what—”

“He’s not dead,” Castiel whispers. He doesn’t know if he has the strength to tell Sam everything that’s happened, but he knows he has to. He steps wearily out of the doorway, making room for Sam to enter. “Come in. I’ll tell you everything that I know.”

~

“Gods,” Sam says quietly, staring down into his mug of ale, “that’s quite a story, Cas.”

They’ve been sitting at the table for what feels like hours. The fire has burned down to embers, since Castiel sent the thralls to their quarters to give himself and Sam some privacy, and he’s been too absorbed in telling Sam of all that he’s missed in his absence to stoke it. The room is all red glow and dark shadows.

“I know.” Castiel scrubs tiredly at his face. The day is catching up to him now, and he doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry after the story he’s just told Sam. “I wish I’d stopped him from going. I might have been able to discourage them, and then he’d still be here, and if they were only after Dean then all those men might still be alive, and—“

“Cas.”

Sam’s voice is firm. When he looks up, the young advisor is watching him with sympathetic eyes. “You know you couldn’t have stopped him. He’s as stubborn and strong-willed as our father was, and if he believed he was doing something for the good of the village, you wouldn’t have been able to stop him. He’s not the kind of person to let other people fight his battles for him.”

He’s right, Castiel knows he’s right, but anger at his husband still bubbles up inside him, and he squeezes his eyes closed for a second to fight back tears of bitter frustration. Dean had been set on going. Nothing Castiel could have said would have stopped him, but gods, he _wishes_ he could have done something to prevent this.

Now he’s simply powerless.

“I know,” he chokes out, pressing his knuckles into his eyes. He clears his throat, then says again, “I know.”

“If he was captured, then we still have a chance of rescuing him. I asked around the king’s staff before I came here, to see if anyone knew of the villages to the north.”

Castiel forces himself to take a deep breath, then opens his eyes. Facts, planning, tactics. He can do this. It’s better than sitting here and wallowing in his own misery.

“And?” he asks. “What did you find?”

Sam leans forward, resting his forearms on the table. He spins his half-full mug idly between his fingers. “I know of a lot of the villages up there—most of them are friendly, and we’ve traded and gotten together with them before. But there was one I heard about that I didn’t really recognise. It goes by the name of Jorvik, and word is that a few months ago, the old Jarl died, leaving the leadership of the village to his son.”

Castiel sucks in a breath through his teeth—a change in leadership could certainly be the cause of these new attacks. But…

“Why attack _our_ village?” he wonders, almost to himself. “Why go after Dean?”

At the question, Sam shifts uneasily in his seat. His gaze shifts away, and Castiel frowns. “Sam? What do you know? What aren’t you telling me?”

Sam runs his hands through his hair, then meets Castiel’s gaze. His eyes are dark. “A long time ago, when Dean and I were children, a Jarl and his two sons came to stay with us. The Jarl himself was okay—a bit strict and mean, but nothing terrible. His sons, though…” Sam shakes his head, and a muscle in his jaw jumps. “They were awful. They threw stones at our livestock, they would borrow our weapons and break them by hitting logs and rocks, they would call people awful names. But the older one…”

He breaks off and sucks in a wobbling breath. Castiel has never seen him like this, so distressed as he relives memories long-buried.

“We found the older son beating one of our thralls. She had been with my father since he was young, and the son beat her to death. She wasn’t breathing when we found her.” Sam’s face twists bitterly. “And all because she had brought him a brown tunic instead of the blue one he had requested. My father had him executed for daring to touch, let alone abuse, someone he considered family. The Jarl of _Jorvik_ was furious, but it was at his son as well as my father. He was a man of the Old Laws, and he understood that it was John’s choice to punish him. The other son, though…”

Sam’s knuckles are white around his mug, and he visibly forces himself to let go. “It’s possible that the son may still be harbouring resentments against my family and our village for the execution of his brother. From what I remember of him, and the stories I heard back home, it’s not unlikely that he would like to see this place burned to the ground.”

Castiel leans back in his chair.

It’s a lot to process. Firstly, the thought of someone killing a thrall over such a mundane grievance, intentional or not, is enough to have Castiel’s blood boiling with rage. Rainer and Alette and even Kalle are like family to him, and he would not hesitate to kill anyone who hurt them, battle-hardened warrior or not.

And secondly, the thought of Dean in the hands of someone harbouring that much rage, and capable of so much cruelty…

It’s not something he wants to think about too closely. But he does know that with every second that passes, they’re running out of time.

“How many days’ ride is it to _Jorvik_?”

Sam frowns. “Two or three days, probably. That’s travelling alone and travelling fast, though. Why?”

Castiel is already formulating his plan. It’s wild, and has a high chance of failure, but he’s willing to take that risk. He told Dean that he would follow him all the way to Valhalla to get him back, so a few days’ ride to Jorvik is easy in comparison.

“I’m going to rescue Dean. Whatever it takes, I will do it, and I will not return here without him.”

Sam sucks in a sharp breath, as if to protest, but Castiel holds up his hand to stop him. “I have to, Sam, you know I do. If the new Jarl of Jorvik sends more forces here to destroy the village, we need to have every warrior and shield-maiden ready. I’m a shepherd’s son—I’m no one special. I’m not a leader, and I don’t have tactical experience, but I _am_ the person who will do whatever it takes to get Dean back.”

He’s convincing himself as much as he’s convincing Sam. He _needs_ this plan to work.

“And you’d go by yourself?” Sam’s scepticism is still visible in the crease between his brows and the firm line of his mouth, but Castiel is just starting to win him over.

“Yes,” he confirms. “I’m good at being quiet and stealthy, I know how to move through the land without attracting attention. Besides, I know now that I can’t trust anyone except for you, Sam. I don’t know who gave away the information about our raiding parties, but I can’t risk them finding out about my plan. And that’s why I need to leave tonight.”

“Odin’s beard, Cas,” Sam breathes. “You’re crazy, you know that?”

“I know, Sam.” Cas manages a tight, bitter, _exhausted_ smile. “But I’m also in love. And I would do anything for my _ást_. Even send myself on a fool’s mission.”

Sam regards him in silence for a few long moments. His expression is unreadable, and Castiel doesn’t know what’s going on in his head, but he knows that whatever Sam’s reply is, there’s no way he can discourage him from going to rescue Dean.

Finally, Sam sighs and shakes his head. “So you’re going to leave me here to lead and deal with the fallout of _your_ disappearance as well as Dean’s?” 

Okay, Castiel does feel a little bad about that. Sam had only ridden all the way out here to check that they were all okay after the attack—and now he’s found out that Dean is missing, captured by a Jarl holding a lifelong grudge against their family, and is now being left to lead the village alone. It’s a position Sam had never wanted, even after John had offered it to him over Dean before his death, but Castiel doesn’t have a choice right now. He doesn’t trust anyone else to go to the ends of the earth and beyond to rescue Dean.

“I suppose I am, yes,” he says apologetically. “You know I wouldn’t do this if there was another option, Sam.”

Sam closes his eyes, sighs, then lifts his mug of ale to his lips. He drains the rest of it in a single swallow, then decisively sets it down on the table.

“Then I guess we should get you ready to go.”

~ 

They creep through the village on silent feet, sticking to the shadows and avoiding the great swathes of silvery moonlight that adorn the open street. Even this late at night, there are still people awake—Castiel can hear the sound of quiet crying from inside the house he’s leaning against, and a few doors down, someone is singing a mourning song.

 _No more death_ , he promises his people with silent lips. _Not if I can prevent it._

He hoists his saddlebags higher on his shoulder and presses on, Sam following behind him. The village has changed since the last time Sam visited; they have had outsiders join them, karls and thralls alike, and the village has expanded, improved. Dean was— _is_ —a good Jarl, and the village is prospering more than it ever has.

Castiel prays to every god he knows, as they move silently through the sleeping village, that it stays safe and protected.

It doesn’t take long before they reach the outskirts of the village, where houses and buildings give way to farmland. Before they reach the horses’ paddock, though, they must go past the watchtower.

“There’s a small valley just before the watchtower,” Castiel whispers to Sam. He hands the saddlebags over—filled with precious food and water and scant other supplies—then points out the shadowed dip in the landscape. “Stay low and follow it around until you reach the paddock.” Thankfully, the guards won’t be able to see the paddock, but they _might_ be able to see the valley.

Unless something else distracts them.

He straightens up and steps onto the path, then starts walking in the direction of the watchtower.

The guards are mostly facing outwards, on high alert for any sign of intruders attempting to enter the village, but it doesn’t take long before they spot him approaching from the other direction. “Castiel!” one of them calls, leaning out the window. “Is that you?”

Out of the corner of his eye, Castiel sees Sam slip into the valley, keeping low and sticking to what shadows he can find. Out here, the bare landscape is washed in silver, and any movement is obvious.

“Yes, it’s just me,” he calls back. He tips his head as he makes his way closer, looking up at the guard. He’s young, and looks familiar—Alff, Castiel thinks his name is. “I couldn’t sleep, and needed a walk. Have you seen anything tonight?”

“Seems to be all quiet,” Alff says. “A few people passed out of the village earlier in the day, I think, but you’re the only one tonight. No one’s come in.”

“Good.” Castiel nods, trying to focus on the task at hand instead of being hyperaware of Sam’s movements further up the valley. “The village needs to be protected.” He pauses for a few seconds, rubbing his hand over his chin as though he’s thinking, then lets his shoulders slump. “I’m going to take a walk for a bit. Don’t wait up for me—I think I’ll circle round and come back in from the south.”

 _Too much information, Castiel_. But he has to make sure they don’t suspect anything—no one will be able to stop him or leak the information to his enemies if they don’t know of his absence until he’s long gone. The guards wouldn’t think much of it if him and Sam were simply taking a walk together, but the heavy saddlebags are far too much of a giveaway.

Luckily, Alff doesn’t seem suspicious, and he just nods sympathetically. “I hope it clears your head. I couldn’t imagine having that much responsibility on my shoulders.”

 _If only you knew, kid_.

“Thanks,” Castiel mutters, and continues walking along the path until the land dips and he’s out of view of the watchtower. From there, he breaks into a jog. The paddock is up ahead, and Castiel’s heart lifts in relief as he sees Sam waiting by the gate.

“Dean still has Ilmr, I see,” Sam notes as Castiel pulls to a stop beside him.

“As much as Dean prefers travelling by sea to horseback, he still likes her. Besides, Elisif would never let them be separated.”

At the mention of her name, Elisif’s ears prick, and she snorts. “Yes, girl,” Cas murmurs, pitching his voice to carry across the grass, “I’m talking about you.”

She comes trotting over, with Ilmr not far behind. Cas rubs her nose gently, and she huffs against his cheek. “Ready for an adventure?”

It doesn’t take them long to put the tack on Elisif; this time, Castiel chooses his best saddle and makes sure everything is fastened comfortably and securely. Bareback definitely isn’t an option for this trip, if he doesn’t know what he’s going to be facing. The saddlebags are tied into place, then checked and rechecked, and then it’s time for Castiel to mount up.

He checks the fastening of his thick cloak, along with his father’s sword and the daggers fastened to his belt. Everything is in place.

“You sure you’re gonna be okay?”

Castiel doesn’t have an answer to that question, so he doesn’t answer it.

“I’m going to do my best to find Dean and bring him back alive,” he says instead, his voice quiet but sure. “And I’ll do anything it takes.”

When he turns towards his brother-in-law, Sam’s expression is fearful, though he’s doing an admirable job of hiding it. The man is facing the possibility of losing the only two family members he has left. “Please be careful, Cas.”

“Of course.”

Castiel pulls Sam in for a tight hug, claps him on the back once, then steps away. “I trust you to look after the village,” he says as he swings up onto Elisif’s back. “ _Farvel_ , Sam.”

“ _Farvel_ , Castiel. Odin be with you.”

Elisif springs forward eagerly in a canter when Castiel nudges her with his calves, only pausing when Ilmr calls after them. “Come on, girl,” Cas says, rubbing his hand along her neck, and her ears prick back to listen to him. “You’re all I’ve got now.”

With every passing stride, they leave the village—the place where Castiel has spent almost all of his life—behind.

Castiel points Elisif’s nose north and doesn’t look back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huglausi: coward  
> Farvel: farewell


	5. Chapter 5

The next time Dean wakes, he is alone.

His head still aches, but there’s more to it this time. It feels almost… _fuzzy_. When he tries to concentrate on the far wall of the dimly lit room he’s been confined to, his head spins, and his eyes won’t _focus_. The room pitches and rolls like the deck of a ship, and Dean closes his eyes against the feeling.

Something bitter lingers on his tongue, and he frowns, parsing through his recollection of what happened. Did they drug him? It would explain how little he remembers of… whatever happened after they were attacked. And how they were able to keep him unconscious for so long.

It takes a little while for Dean’s head to be still. In the meantime, he registers the cold of the air, the bite of rope around his wrists, the wooden floor that digs into his hip and his shoulder. Slowly, slowly, the effects of the drug wear off, and he tries opening his eyes again.

This time, he can focus on his surroundings better.

The room he’s in is reasonably small, all bare, ungroomed wooden walls and floorboards, and skewed from the way he’s lying on his side. There’s a torch burning low beside the door, and the light dances along bare walls. He can’t tell where he is—can barely remember _anything_ about the attack, only that the man who wanted him captured alive strikes a chord of familiarity within him.

Dean shifts his weight, testing out his mobility. His left side aches numbly where he’s been lying on it, and he groans as blood begins to return to his trapped arm. With his hands still tied behind him, it’s difficult to move, and he decides not to try to sit up until he’s a little more coherent.

That means he’s left with time to think.

The events of the attack slowly come back to him. The ships emerging from out of the fog and behind the cliffs, more than Dean’s men could ever hope to best. The ferocity of the fighting and the pain of watching his men cut down one by one. The ringing clash of steel and the cries of allies and enemies alike.

The man who had stood at the prow of the largest ship and watched with steel-grey eyes, ordering his men to take Dean alive.

Those eyes… they’re familiar, he knows it…

The connection dances out of Dean’s grasp, and he grits his teeth in frustration. It will come to him, he’s sure. But who would hate Dean or his village enough to want to capture him, or to attack them at all? It’s not a question he has the answer to right now.

He sighs, then immediately regrets it when the muscles around his ribs twinge. Odin, he’s more sore than he’d thought.

Somehow, he doesn’t think that that’s going to improve, what with the situation he’s in, but it’s best not to think about that right now. Not while he’s alone and relatively uninjured and faring okay.

Now that he’s taken stock of his situation and figured out that he’s not in any immediate danger, his thoughts return to what he’s left behind, and the repercussions that his capture will have on his village.

 _Cas_.

Dean’s stomach twists, and all of a sudden he feels nauseous.

He promised his husband that nothing bad would happen to him. Over and over, he’d promised. _I’ll be fine, Cas. I’ll come back safe and sound. Nothing is going to happen to me._

If only he knew how they’d taste like so many empty words on his tongue.

There’s no way to know how much time has passed since Dean’s raid was attacked. Has it been hours? Has it been days? Maybe Cas doesn’t know yet. Maybe he’s still living in blissful ignorance, thinking that Dean is fine and safe and still on his way across the sea to bring back wealth or glory.

Or maybe he already knows.

Who broke the news to him, Dean wonders. He’s not dead, and that’s a small mercy, but there must be a reason that the man on the ship had wanted him alive, and it can’t mean good things for Dean. Who was the one who had to tell Castiel that his husband hadn’t returned home with the rest of the survivors?

Had he known already?

Dean pictures Cas standing at the end of the dock, frantically scanning each returning ship for any sign of Dean’s face. He knows his husband well—he would be one of the first people by the water if word came that the ships had returned. And if he hadn’t seen Dean on board any of the ships…

His stomach turns at the thought of Cas thinking he was dead, even for a second. Anguish pierces through his heart at the pain he has, or perhaps still _will_ , caused his husband. Gods, he never should have left, he should have _listened_ to Cas. Now his village has no leader, and its force of warriors has been decimated once again.

They’re so vulnerable, and instead of dying nobly to protect them, or remaining to lead his people, Dean is stuck _here_ , bound and helpless and powerless.

He is debased; he is no leader. _There is no spot at Odin’s tables in Valhalla for Jarls captured shamefully in battle_ , he thinks bitterly. If death is to come for him, he wishes it had come on the sea, with his men by his side.

 _Or with Castiel by his side, their hair long and grey, finally succumbing to Freyja’s sweet embrace_.

But now, if he does not find some way to free himself, he is going to die far from his men and his village and his _verr_ , without honour and without dignity.

But he makes himself a promise, in this moment, that whatever the man with steel-grey eyes wants from him… he will not get it.

There’s no point torturing himself further. Dean shoves his thoughts of home from his mind. They can’t be allowed to cloud his vision if he’s going to make it out of here alive.

Instead, he works on rolling onto his other side, ignoring the twinges of pain and the insistent numbness of his left side. Rolling over starts to waken his limbs, and it’s not long after that that he manages to struggle up into a sitting position, his arms still twisted behind him but his legs still free.

Dean’s head swims with the new orientation, and he groans through gritted teeth as the dull ache in his head sets to throbbing again. All he can do is sit still and wait for it to subside.

At least now, sitting up, he feels more human than he had sprawled powerlessly on the floor. He is not some animal to be dominated—he is a _Jarl_ , and a fearsome warrior before he had taken up the role.

He sets his jaw, fixes his gaze on the single door opposite him, and waits.

~ 

There’s no way of telling how much time passes. The torch is the only thing lighting the room until it inevitably burns itself out, and then all Dean has to go by are the slivers of daylight that manage to make their way in through the gaps in the walls. He watches as they slowly migrate across the floor until they begin to disappear altogether, and tries not to lose his mind.

There’s not really any comfortable way to sit with his hands tied behind his back, and in the end he ends up leaning awkwardly against the back wall, his shoulders pressing against the wood but the rest of his back angled so as not to crush his bound arms. It works better than lying down, and so that’s how he stays.

Until he hears the sound of footsteps outside.

They crunch against cold, brittle grass, so loud compared to the silence Dean has been surrounded with since he awoke. When he strains his ears, he makes out the quiet whicker of a horse.

There are voices on the other side of the building—some kind of hut, perhaps?—but they’re slightly too far away for Dean to make out any of the words they’re saying. Instead, he gathers his body beneath himself as much as he can, co-ordinating bruised and tired limbs in case he needs to be ready for a fight, an escape, anything.

He has no idea what to expect, or what his captor even wants from him.

The latch holding the door locked turns with a muted _thunk_ , and Dean tenses even further. Torchlight bleeds through the crack between the door and its’ frame now, a dancing wedge of red-gold that widens as the door slowly swings open.

Two warriors enter first. One holds the torch, his sword brandished in the other hand as a warning. The other wields his axe with both hands. Dean bares his teeth defiantly at them as they step into the room, crouched where he is against the back wall like a cornered wolf.

The warriors aren’t the ones who have come to see Dean, though. They step to each side of the door, still eyeing Dean warily and pointing their weapons towards him, making way for a third figure.

This man is tall and imposing. His metal-grey eyes bore into Dean as he steps into the room, and his lips twist into a cruel sneer. He radiates cold ruthlessness, and even from this first impression, Dean has no difficulty in believing that this is the man who has ordered the brutal, _deceitful_ attacks on his men in what is supposed to be a time of relative peace.

The man stops in the centre of the room, flanked by his two warriors, and looks down at Dean with pure _hatred_ in his eyes.

“Remember me, _Jarl Dean_?”

He still looks familiar, but Dean can’t place his face or his voice.

“No,” he rasps, glaring back at the man. He keeps his chin lifted proudly, his lip curled in disdain. “I have no idea who you are, or why the fuck you’re attacking my village. Let me _go_.”

His captor chuckles, and it’s a twisted, dark sound that’s even worse than his grating, nasal voice. A cold shiver runs the length of Dean’s spine. “Let’s see if I can’t refresh your memory, then. We were young. My father took my brother and I on a trip to some of the neighbouring villages.”

_Two older boys stand behind their Jarl. Their expressions scare Dean—they look cold, unfeeling. He shrinks back behind his father._

“It was supposed to be a peaceful visit. We were given a house of our own and thralls to attend to us.”

 _“Your mother is always watching over you,_ barn _. She loves you.” Hildr strokes Dean’s hair as he cries, and quietly sings to him until he falls into an exhausted sleep._

“One of them failed her duties, and my brother punished her for it, as was his right as the son of a Jarl.”

_Hildr lies dead on the floor, her face nearly unrecognisable. Dean can hardly see through his tears as he stumbles outside to empty his stomach._

“And your father, the _bacraut_ that he was, murdered my older brother for it.”

 _In his last moments, the boy snarls at the gathered crowd where he is tied. Both Jarls watch as the executioner nocks an arrow and pulls back the bowstring. Dean covers Sam’s eyes and looks away until it is all over._  

“And _that_ is why, now that I am the Jarl of _Jorvik_ , I will do what my coward of a father never did.” His macabre smile makes Dean want to be sick. “I will kill the sons of John Strongsword, and I will raze his village to the ground.”

“Alaestr,” Dean says quietly. Now he knows. The voice has deepened, and the face has not aged well, but the eyes… the eyes are the same.

“Now he remembers. And I’m glad you do—it’s going to make this so much more fun for me.”

Gods, Dean had known that Alaestr was cruel and sadistic the first time they had met, but this… killing Dean’s men and threatening to decimate his home simply because of something that happened years ago…

“You’re crazy,” Dean breathes, as the reality of what is happening truly begins to sink in. Alaestr has already killed so many of his men that his promise to destroy Dean’s village is entirely a possibility. “The people in my village are innocent, they have done nothing to offend you. Don’t you dare hurt them.”

Alaestr crouches down in front of Dean, and his head tilts mockingly. “What are you going to do to stop me, Dean? I’m not the one tied up and held captive here. You have no power to stop me. Your people are not innocent—they live on land ruled by a murderer and his son, and as such, they carry your crimes.” He sneers, showing yellowed teeth. “Perhaps I will bring you with me, when I send the rest of my men on horseback and by ship to burn your village to the ground. I haven’t quite decided what will cause you the most pain yet.”

He straightens up and tsks, shaking his head. “It’s a shame that brother of yours is still in the king’s city,” he muses, “but I’ll have my revenge on him too, eventually. For now… I suppose I’ll have to settle for killing that pretty husband of yours.”

“ _No!_ ” Dean shouts, struggling against his rope bonds for the first time since Alaestr walked in. “Don’t you fucking dare hurt him. I’ll kill you, I swear to Odin, I’ll kill you if you so much as touch him.”

Alaestr has the audacity to laugh at Dean’s snarled threats, the sound slimy and sickening. “How precious. An esteemed Jarl, threatening to kill me for harming a simple shepherd’s boy. If only you’d actually married someone of note, your village might stand a chance of surviving, but with your people being led by the son of a mere _shepherd_ … they’ll be easy picking.”

Dean is almost shaking with anger now. The rope burns at his wrists as he struggles against it. “How the fuck do you know all this?” he rasps, brimming with unbridled fury—at Alaestr, at his powerlessness, at his own stupidity. “Who told you?”

“Ah, Dean.” The sly tone to Alaestr’s words makes Dean’s stomach turn. “I was so hoping you’d ask that.”

He turns and gestures to the warrior wielding the axe, who nods in reply and ducks out of the hut. Dean barely catches murmured voices outside, then the crunching of footsteps, and then the door swings open once more.

“Rainer?” Dean breathes, and it feels like he’s taken an arrow to the heart. “ _You_ told them? _You’re_ the one responsible for all this?” 

His thrall—ex-thrall—looks at his feet, as though he can’t bear to meet Dean’s eyes. He doesn’t say a word.

“Shy all of a sudden, are we?” Alaestr places his hand on Rainer’s shoulder, fingers digging in possessively. “How very strange. From what I’ve heard, he’s usually so talkative. I guess you just have to motivate him properly—isn’t that right, my new karl?”

 _That’s_ why Rainer had agreed to spill Dean’s secrets. Why he must have given in so easily to whichever nameless, faceless man had reached out to him one day, promising freedom and a life beyond any thrall’s wildest dreams.

Dean exhales as though he’s been punched. “I loved you like you were my own family,” he says, his voice laced with betrayal and anger. “And this is how you repay me, Rainer?”

“You don’t understand, Jarl Dean.” Rainer lifts his head, but he still can’t look Dean in the eyes. Instead, he focuses on a point over Dean’s left shoulder. “You don’t know what it’s like to have been a thrall all your life, and to know that that is all the world holds in store for you. I didn’t have a choice.”

“You _always_ have a choice,” Dean spits. “I know I would rather be a thrall than a traitor. Do you know _anything_ about the man you’ve betrayed me to?”

Rainer shakes his head minutely.

Of course not. Dean laughs, bitter and humourless, and leans his head back against the wall with a dull thud. “This man’s brother _killed_ one of our thralls, Rainer. He was executed for it. _That’s_ why Alaestr wanted me captured—as revenge for the order my father gave so many years ago.”

His words have the desired effect; Rainer pales, and he looks up at Alaestr with wide eyes. “I wasn’t told about that,” he says, his voice shaking.

Alaestr’s fingers dig harder into his shoulder. “It wasn’t something you needed to know.”

“Did you ask _any_ questions about why these people wanted to know about our raids, our village, _me_?” Dean sneers, already predicting the answer before Rainer shakes his head again. “ _Hrafnaseultir_ ,” he spits, watching in cold satisfaction as Rainer flinches and drops his gaze to the floor. “I gave you everything I possibly could without breaking our laws, and in return, you’ve killed me. You’ve killed our _entire village_.” 

“What?” For the first time, Rainer meets Dean’s eyes. They look wide, and scared, and for a second Dean remembers that he’s still just a kid, barely even twenty years old. “The whole village? What do you mean?”

 _He doesn’t know_. He has no idea that in spilling their secrets, he has sentenced Dean and everyone else he’s ever known or loved to death. The murders of an entire village’s worth of people will forever sit against his soul.

Somehow, Dean can’t find it in himself to feel much sympathy for him.

“Get him out of here,” Alaestr hisses to his guards. One of them steps towards Rainer and grabs him roughly by the fabric of his tunic, pulling him out of the room. The ex-thrall moves as though he’s underwater, his eyes still fixed on Dean’s with an expression of dawning horror as he realizes just what he’s done.

Dean holds his gaze until the door has shut, then looks back to Alaestr, who looks entirely too pleased with how everything has played out. “Oh, that was delightful,” he says with a grin. “I hadn’t planned on him finding out until you were little more than a pile of bones in the woods, and your village reduced to smouldering embers, but that…” He smacks his lips, then leers at Dean. “Hearing it from the very man he betrayed? Oh, Dean, what a gift.”

“You’re sick,” Dean growls. “All this murder, breaking so many of our Laws, and for what? My father was justified in ordering your brother to be killed. He _deserved_ it.”

All at once, Alaestr’s features twist with rage, and he steps in close, crouched down in front of Dean. “Don’t you _dare_ speak of him like that,” he hisses.

Dean spits in his face.

Alaestr stares at him for a second, uncomprehending, and then there are iron fingers wrapping around Dean’s throat and pressing him back into the wall. He can’t draw breath, as much as he tries to escape that crushing pressure. Dean tries to gasp in air, the sound barely more than a weak rasp, and dark spots begin to dance in his vision. He won’t give Alaestr the satisfaction of begging him to stop.

Just when Dean is sure he’s about to pass out, the hand disappears. He doubles over, retching and gasping for breath, still feeling as though he’s in danger of losing consciousness.

When he looks up, he finds Alaestr wiping his face with the sleeve of his tunic, a disgusted scowl on his face. “I will make you regret that, Dean,” he snarls, those steel-grey eyes cold as the unforgiving ocean. “You will come to wish that I had strangled you to death. I will give you pain you had never thought imaginable, and in the end, you will beg to let me kill you. But only after I have razed your village to the ground.”

He lifts his foot and digs his boot painfully into Dean’s shoulder, then shoves him to the ground. Without his hands to catch himself, Dean hits the wooden floor hard, a broken groan escaping his lips.

“Sweet dreams, little Jarl,” Alaestr whispers.

Dean stares blearily at the door as three sets of boots leave, and the light disappears with them. The door closes, the latch clicks into place, and for the first time, Dean is overcome with the gut-wrenching feeling of pure despair.

His last thoughts, before he falls into a harrowed unconsciousness, are of Cas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bacraut: asshole  
> Hrafnaseultir: raven starver (coward)


	6. Chapter 6

Castiel’s journey is long and cold and lonely.

The village he’s aiming for is a few days’ ride up the coast, he knows, but he’s never been this far outside the village before. Everything looks different, as open grassland gives way to forest, and he doesn’t quite know how to cope. Still, he tries his best, navigating by the angle of the sun during the day, and the stars during the night—when he’s able to see them.

_“See that one?” Dean whispers, pointing up towards the sky. Castiel follows the direction of his arm, squinting up at the stars in confusion. They all look the same to him._

_“The bright one?” he asks sceptically, looking over at Dean. They’re huddled together on the end of one of the docks, looking out over the still waters of the cove. They’re so clear and perfect that they almost seem to reflect the stars above, and it looks like the realm of the gods stretches beyond the sky itself. It’s breathtakingly beautiful—but Dean seems intent on_ teaching _him tonight, instead of just admiring the beautifully clear sky._

_Dean grins, letting his arm fall and pressing in closer to Castiel. “That’s the one,” he murmurs, pulling his cloak tighter around the both of them. “Aegir’s star. It’s what we use to guide ourselves when we’re out on the ocean. If you can find that star, you’ll never be lost.”_

[](https://66.media.tumblr.com/f29a0f0af604773a4853380a11e4bcd0/tumblr_po2fewk0lq1y3d8hfo5_1280.jpg)

Aegir’s star. It shines brightly above him, just discernible in the gaps between treetops. As long as Castiel tries to keep to the coast, and follows that star like Dean had taught him all that time ago, he should be okay.

Still, there are many miles of foreign land spread out before him. The small voice in the back of his head asks, _how are you supposed to find one man in all that space?_

He knows his quest may be futile, and that he is not the person best equipped to find Dean, but there’s no one else he trusts—both to stay loyal to Castiel and the village, but also to never stop trying until he finds his husband.

Which is why he shoves down the scared, negative thoughts, and focuses on pressing on.

He’s only been riding for a day, too, so he can’t be there yet. Elisif is giving Castiel her all, pushing hard when he asks her to, and still keeping up their pace even when he gives her periods of rest in the walk, or stops to stretch his legs and refill his waterskins. She really is one of the best creatures he has ever encountered, and is almost like one of his closest friends.

She also helps when the loneliness and the fear sink their claws into Castiel. Her presence gives him someone to talk to so that he doesn’t lose his mind, even if it’s just small, inane things. He comments on the scenery of their surroundings as they walk, or ponders where different tracks or trails lead when they fork away from the north-bound path.

When they had finally stopped for rest the night he had left the village, he lay against her neck and told her of his fears when he felt that he could no longer contain them within himself without shattering. She didn’t speak back, of course, but her kind eyes and gentle snorts made him feel as though he was understood anyway.

Gods, maybe he’s already going crazy, talking to a horse like she understands what he’s saying. He hasn’t even been searching for Dean for a full day.

The sun set out to Castiel’s left not long ago, and its rosy hues are beginning to fade from the sky, replaced by deep indigo and the shimmering pinpricks of stars. Being out here reminds Castiel of when he was younger, watching his herds of sheep out on the hillsides. So many times, he would lie down against the grass and look up at the stars, dotted against the vast, open night sky.

Against every single one of those stars, Castiel can’t help but feel small. Insignificant. He is just a shepherd, son of a shepherd, who happened to fall in love with someone far above his station.

He knows that when Dean dies, he will undoubtedly be chosen to go to Valhalla. Odin would be a fool not to want Dean by his side. But Castiel? Castiel is not a warrior. No, Castiel will end up in Helheim like every other person who was not really anything special.

And that means that he has to make the most of his time here with Dean, before death and Odin separate them forever.

As they move further into the forest, the trees in this area begin to grow closer together, and Castiel’s view of the stars becomes more and more limited. With less light to see by, and no clear view of the stars guiding his way, Castiel has to pay attention to every step Elisif takes. At least the increased need for focus distracts him from his turbulent thoughts, but it brings with it a new stressor. Now he has to work doubly hard to ensure that they’re still following the right path.

Eventually, Castiel and Elisif are winding their way through the trees, now so closely-packed that the night sky becomes a faded memory. Castiel’s eyes slowly adjust to the darkness, but he can feel Elisif’s hesitance now. Each step is tentative and choppy, as though she’s no longer sure of the ground beneath her hooves.

When she stumbles over a tree root concealed against the forest floor, Castiel decides that that is enough for tonight. He needs both himself and Elisif to be intact and uninjured if they have any chance of reaching Dean, and that won’t happen if they keep pressing on in the darkness and end up hurting themselves.

“We’ll stop here, girl,” Castiel says into the darkness, squeezing back on the reins. Immediately, Elisif stops with a soft snort.

Without the constant rhythm of her hooves against the dirt and debris of the forest floor, the night suddenly becomes very quiet.

For a few seconds, Castiel just listens, straining his ears to pick out any foreign sounds beneath the wind and the whispering of leaves. Nothing stands out—it sounds like it’s just them in this patch of forest, which works just fine for Castiel. He definitely doesn’t want to come across any strangers, not when he’s alone in the dark like this.

He dismounts carefully and takes the reins over Elisif’s head, then squints into the darkness. He thinks he can make out a shallow dip in the landscape just off the trail; somewhere that will keep them sheltered from the wind and, hopefully, the watchful eyes of anyone who could pass by.

They make their way down towards the hollow, and Castiel untacks Elisif, setting the saddle and bridle and saddlebags down beneath a nearby bush. His horse is too well trained to wander away even though she’s not tied, so he doesn’t have to worry about waking up without a horse in the morning. She wanders a little further away and begins cropping at a small patch of grass, a silvery shadow in the forest’s darkness, and Castiel watches her absentmindedly until his eyes begin to droop with tiredness.

He curls up into the space beneath the bush and wraps his cloak tightly around himself for warmth. His saddlebags make a serviceable, if lumpy, pillow, and he’s so physically and mentally fatigued that it’s easy for him to drift into a light sleep.

He dreams of Dean, sitting atop the boulder on the cliffs but never turning to look at Castiel, no matter how much he shouts and pleads and begs.

~

When Castiel wakes, he does not feel much more rested. His ass is already sore from riding almost non-stop for the past day, and he can feel the stiffness of cold and fatigue settling into his limbs. For a few seconds, he lies still in his sleeping place, blinking open weary eyes against the faint light of dawn that is beginning to filter through the trees.

Another day dawns, and it is another day in which he is separated from his _ást_.

The thought of Dean forces Castiel into action, and he hauls his tired body out from under the bush. His joints complain in the cold morning air, but he has no other option but to grit his teeth and push on.

“Elisif,” he calls quietly, since his mare has wandered out of sight during the night. A few seconds of silence pass, and then Castiel hears her hoofs crunching over the frozen earth, and she emerges from behind a copse of trees. “Morning, lovely,” he says with a tired smile, and she flicks her ears in response.

Breakfast is a chunk of bread and a mouthful of salted meat for Castiel, and a handful of grain for his horse. By the time he’s saddled up and ready to go again, the light filtering through the trees is stronger, and it’s much easier to find the path now than it had been to follow last night.

It takes some willpower to get back up into the saddle, and Castiel groans as he gets himself settled. “Remind me never to ride this far again,” he mutters to Elisif as he gathers his reins, and they set off down the trail at a walk.

It’s not long before the sun is out fully and the day begins to warm. Castiel finds that he doesn’t need his cloak wrapped so tightly around himself, and the forest begins to come to life around them, the air full of bird calls and the rustle of unseen animals. When they stop at a small creek to drink, Castiel catches sight of a deer and her fawn across the water. They seem at ease, and the mother flicks her ears idly at Castiel as her baby drinks from the other side of the creek.

It’s a lovely, serene moment, and Castiel thinks about it long after the deer are gone, even once he’s mounted back up and continuing northwards. It feels like a brightness amongst the despair and worry and fear that has been consuming his mind ever since he heard of Dean’s capture.

Apart from the animals, though, the forest is mostly quiet. He sticks to the trees when he can, just in case, but takes the opportunity to soak up the sun whenever they step out of the forest into grassland. He’s used to the relative warmth of his village or the surrounding hills, not the cool shade of forests or bitingly cold winds of the sea.

[](https://66.media.tumblr.com/4796079742ac17c4371c6998c6f41871/tumblr_po2fewk0lq1y3d8hfo8_r1_1280.jpg)  


As much as he tries to avoid all other human sign of life, though, it’s inevitable that he does run into a few people on the trail between villages. They encounter a _v_ _ǫ_ _lva_ travelling in the opposite direction on foot: when she sees Castiel, she squints at him, as though she’s looking through him, then mutters quietly to herself and hurries on past.

They also pass a messenger on horseback, too harried-looking to spare them a second glance as he urges his pony down the trail in the opposite direction, and another man on a shaggy, heavy-set horse.

This man carries a wicked-looking axe on his hip and bears a twisted scar on his face that slashes across the bridge of his nose and across his right cheek. His eyes are cold, his lips set in what seems to be a permanent sneer.

He watches Castiel with calculating scrutiny as they approach each other. Castiel does his best to avert his eyes as they pass, and hide his face as best he can; once they’ve passed each other and Castiel is sure that the man has disappeared out of sight, he urges Elisif into a canter to try and escape the cold feeling crawling along his spine.

When Castiel decides to stop for lunch, dismounting along the bank of a river near the ford he needs to cross, he assesses the food situation.

He and Sam had had to make do with the time and resources available to them back at the village, as well as packing Castiel’s saddlebags without alerting anyone to his plan of leaving. As a result, his rations are now beginning to run low. He doesn’t have much grain left for Elisif, and giving her time to graze at the grass growing by the river cuts into their travelling time.

She _is_ working harder than he is, though, carrying herself _and_ Castiel across the terrain.

Castiel feeds her a piece of bread and his last half of an apple, cuts her grazing time short, and makes the decision to ride on. He can figure something out for himself once the situation gets more dire. For now, he focuses his mind on things that aren’t his worry for Dean, or the fate of their village, or the rumbling of his stomach that he’s become unaccustomed to after a few years as a Jarl’s husband.

He thinks of his father gifting Elisif to him as a gangly grey foal. He thinks of his first time climbing to the top of a tree and realizing just how _big_ the world is. He thinks of afternoons spent under the warm sun, happy and carefree.

For a while, it works, but there are always concerns pressing insistently at the barriers he’s tried to erect around them. They clamour to be heard, quietly at first, then louder with the more time that passes.

_Will you be able to find food?_

_What is happening in the village in your absence?_

_Is Dean okay?_

_Is Dean_ alive _?_

Castiel grits his teeth against them, and urges his horse just a little bit faster.

~ 

By the time dusk begins to settle over the forest once more, hunger is starting to claw at Castiel’s belly. He doesn’t regret giving his food to Elisif at lunch, but now he has only a piece of bread and hunk of dried meat. None of the berries or fruits on the bushes they’ve passed have been recognisable, and Castiel isn’t going to risk his own health out of mild desperation.

Still, though. Hopefully the village he’s searching for isn’t far away now—for both his sake and Dean’s.

He chews on the meat while they walk, the cadence of Elisif’s hooves against the forest floor a steady rhythm now, until every last shred of it is gone. The bread will have to be saved for breakfast tomorrow.

He’ll be fine, he’s sure of it—he’s survived worse when he was younger and his father had disappeared often with their flocks, having to survive on the dregs of their food and fruit or berries scavenged from nearby plants. Now, though, Castiel knows that if he has any chance of rescuing Dean from the people who have captured him, he’s going to have to have all his strength and wits about him.

He does, however, need Elisif to be strong and healthy enough to continue making their journey. They stop early tonight, once the sun and most of its light has disappeared. Castiel chooses a secluded glade just off the trail, by a creek of water that he uses to clean himself. Elisif grazes at the grass nearby, and the only sounds to be heard are that of gently rushing water, and the occasional caw of a lonely raven perched opposite them.

Now at least cleaned from the grime of two days’ travelling, Castiel sets himself up with his cloak as a blanket and his saddlebags as a pillow again. The sky is still bright enough to show the silver-grey outline of his horse where she grazes contentedly, and he watches her for a few minutes while he waits for sleep to take him.

“Excuse me.”

Castiel bolts upright, his hand on the sword that has never strayed far from his side.

In the middle of the clearing stands a man. Castiel hadn’t heard him approach them from the trail, and Elisif certainly hadn’t warned him of the man’s presence. In fact, she continues to crop at the grass beyond the man, flicking a disinterested ear in their direction but otherwise ignoring them.

Castiel eyes this new intruder warily. “What do you want?”

The man steps closer—he looks to be reasonably old, too old to be travelling along this trail alone and on foot. When Castiel squints closer, attempting to parse out details in the rapidly encroaching darkness… it looks as though this man has only one eye.

“Who are you?” Castiel asks warily, wrapping his fingers around the hilt of his sword. He can’t help but think back to the man they had passed earlier today, with the scar and the cold eyes and the lingering feeling of unease. Is this man the same?

In the half-darkness, the man smiles gently and spreads his hands out in front of him; he is unarmed, or so he wants Castiel to think. “My name is Fjolnir,” he says, and while his voice has the rasping quality of an old man, it carries clearly across the space between them. “I was passing by and couldn’t help but notice your beautiful horse. Both of you look hungry, though, have you travelled far?”

Castiel isn’t sure how to react to this sudden appearance. On the one hand, he shouldn’t be trusting a stranger who has showed up out of nowhere, especially when he’s not sure who he can trust. Spies or warriors for the Jarl of Jorvik could be anywhere.

But on the other hand…

The man seems unthreatening. Elisif has hardly reacted to him, and since she’s usually not comfortable with strangers, he trusts her judgement of character. Besides, Fjolnir gives off a calming aura. There’s an undertone of something to it—steel, strength, something else—but it’s not overwhelming.

Although still wary, Castiel uncurls his fingers from the hilt of his sword. “We have travelled a reasonable distance, yes,” he says.

Fjolnir smiles, then reaches into the depths of his cloak. From it, he pulls out a bag, peers inside, then takes a few steps forward and sets it down on the ground. It’s a few feet away from Castiel, which he appreciates—he still isn’t sure as to just how much he trusts the man.

“I’m only travelling to the next town,” Fjolnir says, stepping back and pulling his cloak back around himself. “That bag is yours if you want it.”

Before Castiel can ask what’s in it, he’s already turning away, though he makes eye contact with Castiel one last time. There’s something serious and unreadable in his single blue eye. “Travel safely, my child. I hope you find that which you seek.”

And then he turns and walks away, disappearing into the shadows that have enveloped the trail, until Castiel can’t see him no matter how hard he looks.

Castiel stares in the direction that he disappeared in for several long moments. Something in him feels… different, as though a piece of himself has fallen into or out of place.

Eventually, he stands and makes his way over to the bag. Inside is a full loaf of bread, several strips of dried meat, two fresh apples and even a small cake wrapped in cloth. He stands there and looks at the food, then back up to the dark trail.

“Thank you,” he says quietly, since he hadn’t been given a chance before Fjolnir had disappeared.

Castiel eats half of one apple and offers the other half to Elisif, who chomps on it happily. It’s the best thing he’s tasted since Dean’s disappearance, when everything had begun to taste like ash, his worry permeating every single aspect of his life. The bag and the rest of its contents are carefully hidden in a hollow in one of the trees bordering the clearing, too precious to stand being lost to thieves or wild animals.

When he goes to sleep that night, looking up at the stars dotting the night sky, Castiel’s dreams are calm. Quiet. He dreams of sunshine and green and pure, unending happiness.

~ 

Castiel wakes early the next morning, feeling more well-rested than he has this whole journey. The aches in his muscles and bones feel as though they’ve faded, and the ghost of a smile lingers on his lips as he stands up from his sleeping spot and stretches.

The morning doesn’t feel quite as cold as Castiel calls Elisif over from where she’d been dozing and starts to tack her up, and even she seems to be in fine spirits, flicking her tail and dancing on the spot like she’s ready to go. “Easy, girl,” he says as he tightens the girth, but he’s feeling it too. The itch in his fingers to _go_ , to make up ground between him and Dean, to fight anyone who gets in his way, to do whatever it takes to be reunited with his husband.

He breaks off a small chunk of the bread loaf and eats it while he double-checks his tack and the secureness of his saddlebags, then gathers the reins and mounts up. Elisif does an excited little pigroot, and he grins. “I know. Let’s get out of here and go find Dean, shall we?”

She doesn’t need to be told twice, it seems, trotting over to rejoin the trail and then breaking into a gallop once her hooves are back on packed earth. This isn’t a pace they can sustain for long, but the wind feels good in Castiel’s hair, and the sheer power beneath him makes him feel as though he can do anything, so he doesn’t pull her up. Instead, he grins and stands up in the saddle, urging her on faster until they’re flying along the trail.

_Here I come_ , verr.

They keep up the gallop until Elisif begins to tire, her breathing becoming more and more strained, and then Castiel slows her to a walk. She wants to try for him, he knows, but in return he has to look out for her and her health, and running her into the ground like an idiot isn’t the way to do that.

Walking gives them a good opportunity to catch their breath, and Castiel pats his horse on the neck to tell her that she’s done a good job. Hopefully they’ll reach Jorvik sometime today, if Castiel’s navigation is correct and they’ve been travelling north and close to the coast this whole time.

Every single step is hopefully taking them closer to Dean, and the same feeling from this morning bubbles in his chest: hope, determination, bitter resolve.

They only stop a few times—twice when they come across water, and once for food and a rest—and make good headway across the day. The trail winds in and out of thick forest the further north they travel, and even though it’s mildly unsettling, since Castiel much prefers the coast and the open grasslands, he knows they’re heading in the right direction.

The sun is just beginning to set when the trees lining the trail start to thin out up ahead. Castiel presses on, used to the openings in the trees merely being glades or clearings, but as they get closer, he realizes…

The trees open up on the edge of a valley, and down the steady slope, by the edge of the sea, lies a village.

He pulls Elisif up sharply, staying just within the border of the trees as he looks down on the village. They’ve passed a couple already during their journey, but they’ve been travelling for almost three days now, and if Sam’s prediction was correct, then this is the one he’s looking for.

Still, he needs to make sure that this is actually Jorvik.

He turns Elisif around and they walk back into the trees, making sure to stay away from the trails. Since the day is coming to an end, people will be returning to the village, and although it’s unlikely that anyone will know why he’s really here, he doesn’t fancy getting caught. He’s no help to Dean if _both_ of them end up captured.

Castiel leaves Elisif in a small glade by a stream, her tack hidden away inside a dry log. “Don’t go anywhere, okay?” he tells her, then lifts her muzzle up to his face and kisses her soft nose. “We came a long way and I’m sure as Hel going to need you if— _when_ I come back with Dean.”

She huffs against his face, then shakes her head, her ears flopping about; he’ll take that to mean she understood.

“Good girl,” he says quietly. “I’ll see you later.”

With Fjolnir’s bag hung from one shoulder, and his weapons on his opposite hip, Castiel makes his way back towards the village.

The trees by the edge of the forest are tall and tightly-packed, so it’s not hard for Castiel to quickly climb up one closest to the village and hide himself in the foliage to watch. While he waits for the sun to set, there’s not much else he can do.

This village is not quite as big as Castiel’s own, but it feels… different. The people he can see look hardened and battle-scarred, and everyone carries a weapon, even the mothers with a child on their other hip. This village is a village of fighters, that much Castiel can tell, and it permeates every single aspect of life, from every single age.

Castiel thinks of little Sigrunn, happy and carefree and always getting into mischief, and tries to imagine her growing up here.

None of these children have been given the opportunity to truly be _children_.

The rest of the village, from what Castiel can see, doesn’t look as tightly-knit or well-kept as his own. The few guards that he can see look bored, and take any opportunity to distract themselves, chatting to their friends or catcalling female thralls who have to pass by. It curdles Castiel’s stomach to see that many of the thralls are undernourished and wearing ill-fitting or damaged clothing. Some even bear bruises or welts on the parts of them that are exposed.

Castiel grinds his teeth, hating this village and its Jarl more and more with every second that he watches. Whatever he can do to help make this place better, whatever is in his power, Castiel will do it.

But first: Dean.

He stays in place, just watching, until night falls, then makes his move. His climb down from the tree is as silent as he can get it, and then he skirts along the edge of the forest, using the gathering darkness and the colour of his cloak to conceal himself as he makes his way down to the water’s edge.

There’s no way to know where Dean is being held, so Castiel has to move quietly and quickly, narrowing down his list of options. The most obvious choice would be to hold Dean in the Jarl’s house or the Tinghöll—somewhere close by, in the heart of the town where he couldn’t escape without being detected. Alternatively, though, Dean could be imprisoned somewhere further out, on the outskirts of town where no one would interrupt, where the Jarl could get away with doing anything he wanted.

Castiel’s stomach turns. He’s not sure which would be worse: having to rescue Dean from right under the Jarl’s nose, in the centre of the village, or finding his husband beaten and broken, or worse, somewhere on the outskirts.

He decides to try the centre first, hoping against hope that now that night has fallen, the village will be quiet, and no one will question who he is or where he’s going. The scene he finds at the waterfront is distressing, the docks housing several large ships that look mostly provisioned, but at least it’s quiet. From there, he starts to creep into the village itself, sticking to the shadows and acting as casual as he can when someone walks by, his heart thumping hard against his ribs.

He’s barely made it out of sight of the waterfront when he’s startled by the loud _caw_ of a raven.

When Castiel looks around, he finds the bird perched atop the house opposite the street, watching him with beady black eyes and its head tilted. Its look is a little intense, unnervingly so, but Castiel ignores it and starts to press on. He’s got more important things to worry about.

The next thing he knows, there’s a blur of beak and black feathers in front of him. He rears back, startled, and watches as the bird settles on a hitching rail in front of him, ruffles its feathers, then sits and watches once more.

“What the fuck is wrong with you, bird?” Castiel hisses. “I need to get through there.”

The raven stares at him.

It’s just a bird—there’s no way it can understand Castiel’s frustration, or his desperate need to make it into the centre of the village to find Dean, _let alone_ his words.

“Stupid bird,” he mutters, and walks forward again.

This time, a wing whacks him directly in the face before the raven is settling back on its perch.

Castiel stares disbelievingly at it for a second, then straightens up. “What,” he accuses, “you don’t want me to go this way?”

The raven stares at him.

“Then what way _do_ you want me to go?" 

This gets a reaction. The raven tilts its head to the other side, then spreads its wings and takes flight—past Castiel and back down the street in the direction he came from. Castiel looks after it. Is he really about to follow a _bird_?

Well, if it’s so set on him not going further into town…

“Fine,” he growls, turning around and stomping after it. “But if you’re leading me astray here, I am not going to be happy.” He jabs a finger angrily in its direction for good measure.

Odin, is he really talking to a bird? Maybe he’s going crazy. Either way, he really doesn’t know where Dean is, so any direction is a good direction right now.

So he follows the raven.

It leads him back out of the village and along the waterfront, past the warrior-less ships waiting to be stocked and released upon the sea, and then they start heading away from the village altogether.

Castiel stops once he realizes, turning back to look at the village torches behind them. After a few moments the raven, perched on a bush up ahead, let out an impatient _caw_. He turns back with a scowl.

“You really know where Dean is?” he asks sceptically, now unsure as to whether he should keep following, or whether he really is just losing his mind.

_Caw_ , says the raven.

Castiel sighs, then turns his back on the village again and keeps following.

It doesn’t seem like his trust has been misplaced, though.

After a few minutes of walking, Castiel comes to an open, grassy space, bordered by the ocean and a small river beyond it.

Right in the centre, there squats a hut, dark and imposing in the light of the moon.

And somehow, Castiel knows, through a pull behind his sternum and a tingling down his spine…

Dean is in there.

“Thank you,” he says incredulously, turning towards the branch he last saw the raven perched on.

The raven is already gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vǫlva: female seer


	7. Chapter 7

Dean gets a night of respite before Alaestr returns.

It’s hard to find a comfortable position to sleep in with his arms bound, but he’s slept in worse conditions, on board ships caught in the maelstrom of a storm or lashed by wind, so he manages to get a little rest. He knows it’s dawn when the light starts filtering through the cracks between the wooden planks of the walls.

With the dawn comes his tormentor.

He’s awake when the door swings open, sitting against the back wall again. It gives him the perfect vantage point with which to meet Alaestr’s gaze unwaveringly, all steady defiance and calm composure.

It seems to throw his captor for a second—was he expecting Dean to be scared? To beg for his life? His lips curl into a bitter smile. No matter what happens, Dean will never bow down to Alaestr.

His mocking defiance seems to incense his captor, because Alaestr grits his teeth and scowls down at him. “Restrain him,” he growls at the door. Two warriors enter, each with stony expressions on their faces and swords at their belts. They haul Dean roughly away from the wall and up onto his knees, then secure new lengths of rope around his wrists. There’s a brief moment when he’s free, when the original bindings are sliced away, and he tries to bring his hands up to grab at one of the warriors’ swords, but he’s too slow.

A backhanded blow across his face sends him reeling, and before he can recover, the ends of each rope have been tied into rings set into the cabin wall, stretching his arms out and keeping him immobilized in place. Dean spits blood onto the floor and glares wrath and fury at Alaestr. 

His captor simply grins, barbaric and cold. “Bring it all in,” he says to someone else just out of sight, and a thrall scurries in. They keep low to the ground, bent over in subservience, and move quickly as though expecting a reprimand or a blow. A lit torch replaces the burnt-out one beside the door, throwing Alaestr’s twisted face into terrifying, flickering relief, and then the thrall carefully places a wide stool on the ground beside the door, then a bag next to it.

When they chance a look up at Dean, his gaze meets wide, scared blue eyes. They seem young, their clothes so shapeless that Dean can’t tell their gender, but their features are fair and pretty. Dean’s heart aches for them—no thrall should be treated this way. He offers them a tiny smile, and they flinch back from it.

“Leave us,” Alaestr snaps, and the thrall moves as though they’ve been burned, scurrying back out the door as fast as their thin legs will take them.

The door swings closed behind them, and then it’s just Dean and Alaestr.

“It’s a shame your father died, Dean,” Alaestr says conversationally as he walks over to the stool. “I would have enjoyed doing this to him. Making him pay for what he did to my brother, and the shame he brought to my family. But…” He hums, and when he looks over his shoulder at Dean, there’s a cold smile on his face. “You will make an adequate replacement.”

“Replacement for what?” Dean asks, his voice pitched low and wary. It seems as though Alaestr has plans for him, but what those plans are, he has no way to tell. The ropes give him a few ideas, though.

His captor turns away and doesn’t reply; instead, he reaches for the bag and unknots the drawstring. Something inside the bag clanks, sharp and metallic. Dean’s heart sinks as Alaestr pulls out a series of small, sharp-looking knives, unsheathing them all and laying them out atop the stool in order of their size.

“You see, Dean.” He picks one up and twirls it in his hand, then turns back towards Dean. “I am going to make you hurt, I know that much. My knives, my hands, my boots… All the pain your family inflicted on mine, I will return tenfold. You will know the meaning of pain before you die, Dean, son of John.”

Dean tugs against the ropes holding him still, but it’s no use. There’s no slack, nothing he can use to free himself. “You’re crazy,” he snarls.

Alaestr hums, running his finger along the blade of his knife. “Very possible,” he acknowledges. “But I’m the _winner_ , and that’s all that matters.”

He sinks down onto one knee in front of Dean. The blade of the knife glints in the torchlight, and it seems to catch Alaestr’s eye as he turns it back and forth, admiring it.

This fraction of a second might be Dean’s only chance, and he takes it. He puts all his weight onto the ropes around his wrists and scrambles to get his feet under him. One boot lashes out towards Alaestr’s head in the hopes of knocking him out, but as fast as Dean can move—

Alaestr moves faster.

He catches Dean by the ankle, and Dean screams as the knife sinks through the leather of his boot and into the top of his foot. It doesn’t go in very far, but it’s more than enough to have Dean shaking with the pain of it, his jaw clenched hard enough to make his teeth creak in his skull.

Alaestr grins, then pulls his knife out and drops Dean’s foot to the floor. It hurts, the pain much more than Dean had been prepared for, and he breathes out harshly between clenched teeth. It takes him more time now to get his knees back under him and relieve the screaming pain in his arms, and then he slumps against the ropes, panting hard and trying to separate himself from the pain.

“See, Dean?” Alaestr’s bloodstained knife no longer catches the light. “I told you. _I win_. There is nothing for you to do now except await your fate. Your _punishment_.”

He reaches out to grip the front of Dean’s tunic, then cuts it away with a few precise slices of his knife. The fabric falls away from Dean’s chest, leaving him bare from the waist up, and he shivers—both from the sudden cold and from the pain already throbbing through his body.

Alaestr slides closer, and Dean bares his teeth at the man despite his situation. Before he can entertain any thoughts of attempting to bite off his nose or ear, however, Alaestr’s free hand comes up to grip Dean’s jaw. His gnarled fingers dig hard into the joints on either side, so hard that Dean grunts in pain.

He’s completely powerless.

“How far the great Jarl Dean has fallen,” Alaestr mocks. He brings the tip of his knife to Dean’s chest, dragging it lightly over bare, sensitive skin. “And this is only the beginning.”

When he cuts into the centre of Dean’s chest, Dean shakes with the pain of it but bears it silently. The knife carves into Dean’s skin, but he doesn’t utter a single sound until Alaestr has finished, and leans back to appreciate his handiwork. “A gift from me to you, on your daddy’s behalf,” he says with a macabre grin.

Dean grits his teeth and silently stares Alaestr down. His captor simply chuckles.

“Be silent and stoic all you want, Dean,” he murmurs, his words twisted and nasal. “I’m only just getting started with you.”

~

The hut is latched from the outside, and the inside of it, from what Castiel can tell, is dark and silent.

There’s every possibility that this isn’t the right place, that Castiel has been led to this secluded cabin by a random bird like a complete fool, but he can’t help but trust that feeling in his gut that says he’s _right_.

The latch is heavy and rusted in places, but securely bolted into the door, and Castiel grunts with the effort as he forces it open. The door swings inward, and moonlight spills across the floor of the small interior. The light illuminates rough wooden floorboards, darkened in some places—Castiel’s heart twists when he realizes that the darkness is bloodstains, soaked into the floor of the hut.

Something moves in the darkened interior, and he squints into the shadows. “Dean?” he ventures, his voice quiet. Hesitant.

There’s nothing but silence, and Castiel’s heart is beating in his throat now, and he can’t breathe, until—

“Cas?”

The voice is wobbly and rasping, but there’s no doubt about it.

It’s Dean.

He shoves the door the rest of the way open and all but runs into the hut, trying to get his eyes to adjust to the interior as quickly as he can. A shape forms out of the shadows, and Dean’s green eyes just barely reflect the moonlight where he blinks up at Cas from his position on the floor.

“Is it really you?” his husband rasps, and Castiel kneels beside him as he struggles to push himself upright. “Am I dreaming? Am I dead?”

“No,” Castiel breathes, his heart shattering into a thousand pieces. “No, Dean, no, you’re not dreaming. I’m here. It’s really me.”

Dean’s vague shadow forms itself into more of a human shape the more Castiel watches, and soon he can see more details.

Once he can, he almost wishes he couldn’t.

Dean’s chest is covered in cuts, his skin darkly mottled with bruising. Some of the wounds look fresh, bleeding sluggishly or only just healed, and others look older. Angry. But almost all of them are the same. Every single mark is the same rune.

 _Revenge_.

Fury like Castiel has never felt before rises inside him at the sight of his husband so abused, tortured by a madman for actions that had never lain on his shoulders to begin with. His hands are gentle as he reaches out to cup Dean’s face, brushing his thumb over one bruised cheekbone and then pushing back lank strands of hair.

“Oh, Dean,” he breathes, and Dean’s body shudders, as though he’s finally breaking apart. “I’m so sorry I didn’t come sooner, _ást_.”

Dean reaches up slowly, and curls weak fingers around Castiel’s wrist. “It’s okay,” he whispers, his voice tremulous. “You came for me eventually. I think. I’m still not… sure that you’re not… a Valkyrie in disguise.”

Speaking is clearly hard for him, but Castiel focuses on that grip around his wrist and uses it to ground himself from the harrowing sight of his husband so weak and so injured. “I’m not a Valkyrie,” he promises, “but I _am_ getting you out of here.”

Dean pulls his hand down and presses his lips against Castiel’s knuckles—they’re dry and split, but he still recognises them as _Dean’s_. Dean’s kiss.

“Okay, _ást_ ,” he whispers. “Rescue me.”

It’s difficult for them to get co-ordinated, what with Dean’s aching body and the open wounds on his skin. He hisses every time Castiel presses against one too hard, and Castiel’s stomach sinks with guilt, but they have to keep going. There’s no other choice.

Eventually, Castiel manages to get Dean onto his feet. He sways a little, but he’s surprisingly steady once he’s actually up. It probably helps that Castiel has Dean’s arm slung around his shoulders, and his own arm wrapped gingerly around Dean’s waist in the spots where he’s the least injured.

“You okay?” he checks once they’re both standing, just to make sure that Dean isn’t about to pass out on him. All he gets from his husband is a curt nod of the head, though, his jaw clenched.

That’ll have to do.

Slowly, they make their way across the hut to the door, then through the door to the world beyond. Dean blinks against the light of the moon, and Castiel has to suppress the bile that rises in his throat at the sight of Dean illuminated in the moonlight. He’s thinner than he had been when he’d left and so horrifically injured.

But there’s still that spark in his green eyes, the fire burning in him that had made Castiel fall in love with him all those years ago.

That’s how he knows they still have hope. Dean is still going to fight. It would take a lot more than this to knock him down.

It’s too far and too exposed to try and take Dean all the way back to where Castiel left Elisif, so he has to adjust his plans. There’s more forest further along the shore, the treeline not far away, but the river lies between them and the safety of the shadows. It’s not ideal to try and ford the river with Dean so injured, but again, it’s not like Castiel has another option.

Castiel half-guides, half-carries Dean towards the river, Dean’s bare feet dragging in the grass and the dirt when they move too fast for him to keep up. There’s no time to slow down, not when Castiel isn’t sure who’s watching, or where their enemies are, even so late at night.

They make it almost to the closest bank of the river when—

“Over there! There they are!”

 _Fuck_. A quick glance behind them reveals a warrior on the back of a stout pony just riding past the hut. He must have been the one to alert his allies of their escape, because following not far behind is a group of men on horseback, some carrying flaming torches as they advance towards the river, and other wielding bows or axes.

Castiel can feel fate closing in on them.

“Dean,” he hisses, “we have to move faster. They’re almost on us.”

His husband had already been giving their escape his all, but now he digs impossibly deeper and grunts with the effort of it, forcing his legs to move faster. Their feet slip on the soft soil by the river, then dig into wet sand, and then they half-stumble into the river and it becomes even harder for Castiel to keep Dean upright as the water tugs insistently at his feet.

Even so, he promises, “I’ve got you,” and tightens his grip on Dean, dragging him further into the river. The water is icily cold even through Castiel’s boots, and he knows he needs to move faster when Dean’s teeth begin to chatter only seconds in. He unfastens his cloak and lets it be swept away by the river; it’s only encumbering them right now.

The hoofbeats of the advancing horses grow ever louder, even as they ford further across the river.

“Cas,” Dean gasps out, and there’s fear in his voice, but also steel and resolve. “It’s me they want… they can’t get you too, I—”

“Don’t even suggest that,” Castiel snaps, adjusting his grip on Dean and trying to ignore his husband’s groan of pain. “I am _not_ leaving you, you idiot. We both make it out of this together, or not at all, you hear me?”

Dean’s eyes, when he looks up at Castiel, are glazed with cold and pain, but he nods regardless. “You ‘n me,” he whispers.

Despite Castiel’s best efforts, they’re only halfway across the river when the hoofbeats close in, first fading on the softer ground by the edge of the river, then stopping completely. If he chanced a look back, he knows what he’d see: a line of men on horseback by the edge of the river, probably a single order away from leaping in and following after them.

He forges onwards and doesn’t look back.

“Halt there!” a voice orders. Castiel ignores it, just as he ignores the order the second and third times it comes.

And then an arrow whizzes into the water, barely a foot away from them. Had Castiel been moving any faster, he would have been struck.

“Stop, Cas,” Dean rasps against his shoulder, and he does.

They’re trapped.

Castiel stands still in the middle of the river, his shivering, injured husband clinging to him. He closes his eyes.

 _Please, Odin_ , he thinks, _or anyone else who is listening. I know you have no reason to help me. I’m no Jarl or king, no great warrior. I’m just the son of a shepherd. But please… I can’t lose Dean. It would kill me_.

Slowly, Castiel shifts his grip on Dean, making sure he’s supported and standing tall as he can be, then turns to face the men on the opposite bank.

It’s easy to pick out which one the leader is: he has a twisted, hateful sneer on his face, and he’s dressed far nicer than his warriors, who all look hardened and battle-scarred. This is a bitter, vengeful man who has never had to work for anything in his entire life, and Castiel _hates_ him with every fibre of his being for what he has done.

He straightens his back and watches the men with all the powerful regality he can muster, his gaze cold and lips curled derisively. “I have come to return my husband to his village,” he says, speaking evenly and letting his voice carry across the river in the cold night air. “You have wrongfully attacked us and the king will hear of this.”

The man atop the tall bay horse laughs cruelly and kicks his horse a few steps closer to the river’s edge. “I am simply repaying a longstanding debt,” he replies, and the slimy quality of his voice sends shivers down Castiel’s spine. “And the king won’t hear of this if there is no-one left to tell him.”

His smile is wicked: on either side of him, the warriors on horseback lift the bows and nock an arrow each. Castiel’s blood turns cold.

“Kill them both.”

Castiel stumbles backwards, almost tripping when the water doesn’t let him move as fast as he needs to. Beside him, Dean can barely stay on his feet, and Castiel fights to regain his footing while still holding him upright. “Cas, you have to run,” Dean begs, trying to push him away. “I won’t make it, but you can.”

If he leaves Dean now, Castiel will never forgive himself. He holds on tight to his husband and drags him along through the water, lifting his knees high to try and get across. The water is up to his mid-thigh now, but they’re almost two-thirds of the way to the opposite bank.

 _So close_.

The first volley of arrows hiss as they fly past. One grazes Castiel’s bicep, and he growls at the sharp sting of it but presses on. None of them hit Dean, they’re okay, they can still make it.

A few more seconds, a few more steps. They’re so close to the other bank. The second volley of arrows slice through the air towards them, so close and so deadly that Castiel feels the prickle on the back of his neck.

And then Dean stumbles and falls to his knees.

He’s wrenched out of Castiel’s grip as the arrows thud harmlessly into the far bank, and it’s another second before he can correct his momentum and wade back to his husband’s side. “Dean, please,” he begs, reaching for him—

And then he sees the fear in Dean’s eyes, and the blood on his lips, and the arrow shaft protruding from his back.

 _Oh gods, no, please_.

“Dean,” he says, panic rising in his voice. “ _Dean!_ ”

“Cas?” Dean’s voice is shaking and scared and Castiel can feel it ripping his heart in two. He drops to his knees in front of his husband, his hands frantic as they cup his jaw and support his chest.

Dean’s fingers curl weakly into the front of Castiel’s tunic. “Cas, it hurts,” he rasps, and Castiel has never seen him so scared. “I’m so cold, I—I don’t want to die, please.”

There are silent tears streaming down Castiel’s face now, but he’s so numb that he’s barely aware of them; all he can focus on it Dean. Dean’s touch, Dean’s voice, Dean’s heartbeat beneath his palm that is growing so, so weak.

“You’re not going to die,” he says, his voice cracking on the words that feel so useless and empty when he can feel Dean’s heart giving out beneath his very fingers. “You… you can’t, _please_ , Dean. I can’t live without you, _ást_.”

Dean’s fingers lose their grip on Castiel’s clothes, and Cas can feel his body starting to go limp and heavy beneath his hands. “No. No, no no no,” he begs, sliding one hand behind the back of Dean’s neck and wrapping his other arm around Dean’s waist, cradling his husband against his chest in the freezing water. “Don’t leave me.” His words are barely more than sobs, and one of his tears lands on Dean’s cheek.

“I’m… sorry,” Dean breathes, his lips shaping the word loosely as though even barely moving them is an effort. Every breath is laboured, and Castiel can hear them rattling in Dean’s chest. “I… love… you.”

“I love you too, Dean” Cas sobs, holding his husband closer. He bends his head to press one last kiss to Dean’s lips. He’s cold, so cold, and Castiel can taste coppery blood on his tongue, but he doesn’t care. This is his last moment with Dean, he knows.

He kisses Dean for several long seconds, too scared of what he’ll find when he pulls back, but finally he finds the courage to do so.

Dean’s beautiful green eyes, the ones Castiel has loved since the first day they met, are glassy and lifeless. His body is cold.

Castiel’s _ást_ is dead.

Gently, Castiel closes Dean’s eyes, his hand trembling with grief and rage. Then he looks up to the banks, where the Jarl and his men still stand.

“I’ll kill you,” he whispers through gritted teeth, the force of his emotions bubbling beneath his skin in incandescent fury. Castiel knows, as he watches the archers draw back their bowstrings again, that it’s an empty threat, but if he ever gets the chance…

He will watch the life drain from that man’s eyes, just as he had to watch Dean die in his arms.

The man smiles sickeningly and inclines his head mockingly towards Castiel, then utters a single word. The archers release their arrows.

Castiel lifts his chin and faces his death bravely, looking his sworn enemy right in the eye up until the moment when everything turns black.


	8. Chapter 8

Castiel opens his eyes.

The river is gone. There is no water, no cold, no pain like the split second of agony he’d felt. There are no men on the opposite riverbank, and there is no Dean in his arms.

He feels tranquil. Peaceful. Calm.

Instead of kneeling chest-deep in the river’s frigid current, Castiel is now standing on a path. It continues on ahead of him, through the deep valley and between the mountains that border it on either side and disappear up into nothing. Everything has an ethereal quality to it—as though it could all disappear if Castiel thought too hard or spoke too loudly. As though every blade of grass and every stone and every leaf is made out of stars.

[](https://66.media.tumblr.com/6064e003197033b9f7f67895b9daf734/tumblr_po2fewk0lq1y3d8hfo6_1280.jpg)

At the end of the path, far away in the distance, is a large hall.

Castiel knows instinctively, deep down in his heart, what it is.

Valhalla.

This is not the place for him, he knows. Valhalla is for the worthy, those who proved themselves in battle, or as great and fierce leaders. Valhalla is those who will ride with Odin at the time of Ragnarok, and Castiel has no place among those powerful men and women.

So why is he here?

He blinks, and when he opens his eyes again, a figure has appeared on the path ahead of him.

The figure is tall and made of the same sparkling star-stuff as the hills and valley that surround Castiel, but even as he watches, it resolves itself into a more humanoid shape, and then into a person that Castiel would recognise anywhere. His heart catches in his throat.

_Dean_.

Castiel takes a small, involuntary step forward, and then another, and then before he can even think, he’s running, running as fast and as hard as he can towards his _ást_. “Dean!” he shouts, his voice cracking with desperation and longing and _need_. “Dean, wait!”

He runs as hard as his legs will allow and shouts as hard as his lungs can possibly manage, but Dean doesn’t turn around. He doesn’t acknowledge Castiel. He just keeps walking, one foot placed steadily in front of the other, through the valley towards Valhalla.

And no matter how hard Castiel tries, he can’t possibly close the distance between them. It feels like it stays the same, and when he catches his breath, his lungs and legs and heart aching, he realizes that they’re even further apart now than they had been.

“Dean,” he whispers quietly, the one syllable containing all the raw heartbreak that he’d experienced when he’d watched his husband die in his arms, now rising back to the surface and twice as strong as he watches Dean’s silhouette leave him forever to go to Valhalla.

_If you die, I’m coming to Valhalla myself_.

If only he’d known how true his words would be.

Except now he’s here, and he’s close to Dean, and yet he’s still powerless to do anything but watch as his husband walks away and takes Castiel’s heart with it.

Castiel sinks to his knees in the middle of the path, tips his tear-streaked face towards the star-strewn sky, and screams out his grief.

He screams until he’s hoarse, until his lungs have no breath left in them, until he feels completely empty and bereft of everything he has ever had to give. He screams until he has nothing left, and then he closes his eyes and holds back the tears, knowing that this last glimpse of Dean on his way to Valhalla is the last he will ever see of his beloved husband.

When he opens his eyes again, there is a man standing in front of him.

It’s not Dean—his  _ást_ he would recognise in an instant. No, this man is of medium height, dressed in simple but well-made clothes. He has silver hair and a silver beard, and when Castiel goes to meet his gaze, he finds that he only has one eye. It sparkles with wisdom and knowledge and the same star-stuff that comprises the entire valley, and Castiel has the strangest feeling that he has met this man before.

It takes him a moment to realise exactly who he’s in the presence of. When he does, he sucks in a sharp breath, and his eyes go wide.

“Odin,” he says, numb with shock. “I… why am I here?”

Odin gestures for Castiel to rise, the emotions clouding his single eye indiscernible. It takes a few moments for Cas’s mind to process the order—he’s kneeling in front of a god, _the_ god, and how does one act in these situations? Slowly, he gets back up onto his feet, until he’s once again eye to eye with Odin himself. He can feel a slight tremble in his hands.

“You are here because you have passed over to the next life, Castiel.” The god’s voice is gentle, but even so, it carries with it the presence of thousands of years of existence, an effortless strength and gravitas that could topple whole kingdoms or raze an entire city to the ground. Castiel feels lightning crackle over his skin with each word, and has to resist the urge to fall back onto his knees.

“I know that,” he says—his voice cracks, and he forces himself to steady. “But why _here_? I’m not a warrior, or even remotely worthy of dining in Valhalla. I should be in Niflheim.”

Odin regards him silently for several long moments, almost as though he’s carefully choosing his words. “You are here for him,” he says, half-turning towards the building at the end of the valley. Castiel follows his gaze to where Dean is standing, completely still and with his back towards them, halfway along the path to Valhalla. Grief wells up in his chest once again, and he grits his teeth against the tears that prickle behind his eyelids.

“And you are also here for me,” Odin finishes, turning back towards Castiel.

_What?_

“For you?” Castiel echoes, a frown creasing his brows. “What do you mean?”

The expression in Odin’s single eye becomes one of sorrow. “I have watched you for many years, Castiel. You and your husband are good men. Good leaders. When Alaestr decided to launch an attack on your people, there was little I could do to interfere, but once he had captured your husband… I could not stand idly by.”

He lifts his hand, age-weathered but still strong beyond any human comprehension, and rests it against Castiel’s head, his thumb pressing into the centre of his forehead. For a second, Castiel feels nothing, but then there’s a crackle like lightning that races across his body, and—

_Dean lies on the floor of the hut, his skin marked by the cruel metal of Alaestr’s knife and shivers wracking his body. His sleep is restless and uneasy in the draughty hut, with no furs or fire to warm him. The wind whispers in through the cracks in the walls, and with it the faintest breath of a voice._ Svefn _, it says, and Dean’s shivers ease. The flow of blood from one of the deepest wounds slows, then stops, and it starts to heal just a little around the edges. Dean sighs in his sleep, his pain eased._

_Castiel rides through the forest, hunger gnawing at his stomach, ever-present in the back of his mind. There is yet another day’s ride to his destination, and he will need all his strength if he wishes to succeed in rescuing his husband. It is easy to manifest into a physical form on Midgard, and when Fjolnir steps out of the trees and into Castiel’s clearing, it is with a bag of magick-imbued food stowed within the depths of his cloak._

_The raven watches Castiel as he creeps through the village on silent feet, blending into the shadows and remaining almost undetectable. He is making his way into the middle of the village, though, where the Jarl and his forces are the strongest but where he will fail to find his husband. If he continues on his path, neither he nor the one he seeks will survive the night. Huginn lets out a_ caw _, and watches as Castiel turns in his direction._

The hand falls away, and with it Odin’s memories—though they are no memories like Castiel has ever known, and his head aches with the fullness of it, of seeing the world through the mind of a god who can see every single second of the past, present and future all at once. He reels back and brings his hands up to his temples, trying to steady the sickening spinning of the stars and the ground and Odin’s figure in front of him.

“You—” he gasps out, and his voice hitches with emotions that threaten to overwhelm him. “It was you? That was all you?”

Odin inclines his head in a single nod.

Why is Castiel here, in Valhalla, face to face with the _Alföðr_? Why has Odin been helping him to find Dean?

A single thought occurs to him, a single thing that Odin had said before showing him the memories, that sticks in Castiel’s mind right at this moment. “You said you’ve been watching me for many years,” he says, each word slow and careful. “Why? And why help me now?”

Odin looks at him for a long few seconds, his expression unreadable. There’s something sad about it, something almost—nervous? Apprehensive? Seconds pass, and they feel like minutes, like hours, until finally the god lifts his hands. Golden light surrounds him, swirling around his body, and an unseen wind lifts his clothes, his beard, ruffles the ravens’ feathers that hang from the clasp of his cloak.

Castiel shields his eyes against the light, and when he looks again, it is not Odin standing in front of him, but his father.

His jaw drops.

Síðgrani— _Odin_ —remains silent while Castiel stares, trying to process this information and the way it tips his worldview completely on its axis. The man in front of him—it’s his father, there’s no doubt. Castiel has known him all his life, and this is him even down to the scar on the knuckles of his right hand from where he’d hurt himself on a fence when Castiel was four. It’s too perfect to be just an imitation of Castiel’s father.

Which means…

“Faðir?” he whispers, the word little more than a single, exhaled breath.

Síðgrani’s lips curve into a sad smile. “Hello, son.”

Castiel sways on the spot and closes his eyes. Not even two weeks ago, he was in bed with his husband, exchanging jokes and kisses and with few cares in the world. Now he and Dean are dead, and he’s standing in Valhalla, facing the Allfather who, it turns out, just so happens to also be _Castiel’s_ father.

He feels a little bit nauseous.

“I didn’t want you to find out like this.” When Castiel opens his eyes again, Odin is back in his original form, with only one eye and his silvered hair. “I didn’t know if I ever wanted you to know, if I’m honest. At least not until you grew old and came to join me in Valhalla. You are going to do great things, regardless of whether or not you know who your father really is.”

Castiel snorts bitterly, distress rising up inside him. “ _Are?_ I’m not sure if you’re aware, but I’m not on Midgard any more. I’m _dead_. There is no future of great things ahead of me—and besides, all I ever was was the son of a shepherd. Marrying Dean was the greatest thing I ever did.” And now Odin is torturing him with this last glimpse of his dead husband before Dean journeys on to Valhalla, and Castiel is merely carted off to Niflheim.

Odin raises his eyebrows. “I’ll caution you not to speak of yourself that way, my son. I do forget, however, that people cannot see what I see. I promise you, there is a reason that you are here, and that you ever existed in the first place.” His mouth sets in a grim line, and his brows furrow. Ozone crackles in the air. “If Alaestr kills you both and destroys your village, the brutality will not stop there. All this, Castiel, everything that has led to you and I and Dean here in Valhalla… it has all happened for a reason. I saw your future as I created you: your undying love for your husband, your determination to rescue him, the way you have and will continue to lead your people. You still manage to surprise me at many turns, but I know your fate, Castiel Odinsson. You were born to be a king.”

Odin lifts his hand towards Castiel, and all of a sudden he finds himself transported, again seeing the world through Odin’s eye—but this time it is not the past he finds himself seeing.

_Castiel stands in a great hall, decorated richly with tapestries and shields and finery the likes of which he has never seen before. The floor is wooden but still beautifully constructed, each piece of timber perfectly fitting together as though it had been laid down by Odin himself. His gaze follows the open space, taking in the simple but masterfully executed design and decoration, until his eyes fall on—_

_The pair of thrones sitting on a raised dais at the far end of the hall._

_The right-hand throne is empty, but lounging in the left, golden crown perched atop his head and roguish grin curling his lips, is Dean._

_And if the left-hand throne is Dean’s, and if he is one king of_ Norge _, then…_

_Castiel reaches up, and his fingers brush over the smooth, cool metal of the crown perched atop his head._

_He is the second._

The vision disappears as quickly as it appeared, and Castiel finds himself once again blinking his eyes open in Valhalla. His mind reels with the information that Odin has shown him, and he can barely process it, let along accept it.

He’s gone all his life thinking that he’s simply normal, that he was marrying above his class by agreeing to wed Dean. But now, to find out that he’s the son of a god, and that they’re destined to become kings one day…

“I know it’s a lot to comprehend,” Odin says, pulling Castiel out of his rapidly escalating panic. “But you need to know why I’m doing what I’m about to do, my son. You have great things ahead of you, but you need to be alive to achieve them, and you need Dean by your side.”

“What are you about to do?” Castiel asks, but he’s speaking to the empty air before he’s even finished his sentence. Odin is already gone.

The weight of this new knowledge settles on Castiel’s shoulders like the heaviness of a yoke, but before his fear sets in once again—

Further along the path, halfway between Castiel and the star-speckled hall nestled in the slope of the valley, Dean turns around.

At first, his brow is furrowed with confusion, as though he’s only now fully comprehended where he is—which is to say, not on Midgard. As he turns, though, it’s not the sky swirling a thousand new stars that he focuses on, nor is it the beautiful sight of Odin’s hall that had awaited him.

No, when he turns, he looks straight at Castiel, and his face lights up.

Castiel’s heart rises into his throat as Dean takes one step, then another, and then all of a sudden he’s running, flying along the path towards Castiel and away from where Valhalla has been awaiting him. Before he even realizes he’s moving, Castiel is running to meet him, his toes digging into the dirt of the path and propelling him towards his _ást_. Towards his fate.

He meets Dean halfway, and his husband crashes into him with so much force that it’s a miracle they both stay on their feet. Even if one of them had fallen, though, both of them would have gone down, as they cling so tightly to one another that to Castiel, it feels like every part of him is _Dean_ , as though it will never be possible to separate them ever again.

“Cas,” Dean chokes out against Castiel’s shoulder, his voice breaking. It’s all he can say, over and over, until Castiel takes Dean’s face in his hands and gives him a wobbly smile.

“I told you I’d follow you all the way to Valhalla,” he whispers, his voice thick with unshed tears, and then he presses his lips against Dean’s, and everything goes black.

~

Castiel is cold.

There’s a chill that penetrates all the way down to his bones, wrapping itself around the very core of his soul with tight fingers. _This is what it feels like to be dead_ , he thinks, his mind floating and fragmented and so very cold.

Even as his thoughts start to come together, though, the cold fades. It begins in a prickle, and then an ebb, and then it disappears in a rush, fading away until it’s being replaced by warmth, and life, and _thoughts_.

Castiel remembers dying, and he remembers Valhalla, and now he remembers living again.

The river is warm compared to the icy grip of death, the current pulling at his clothes, his limbs. His lungs burn for air, and as feeling sparks once again in the tips of his fingers and in his toes, he digs his boots into the muddy bottom of the river and pushes himself upright.

The air does not taste as pure as it had in Valhalla, but it tastes of _Midgard_ and _home_ and Castiel drinks it in greedily as he stands in the middle of the river and _lives_. Above him, the stars glitter, and he knows that one day he will join them for good, but today is not that day. His chest burns, and his body aches, but he is alive.

“Alaestr!”

The voice is scratchy and rough but it carries on the wind towards where the cruel Jarl and his men are returning to their village, their backs turned on the two men they have killed in cold blood.

It is a mistake, and it is the last mistake they will ever make, for Dean lives, and his eyes burn with a cold fury that even Odin himself would fear.

He stands a little upstream of Castiel, planted firmly in the water and with his chin lifted imperiously like the Jarl he was born to be. Where there were once cruel marks carved into his skin, now it is smooth and unmarred—

Apart from a single rune that is etched into the centre of his chest, over his heart, glowing faintly silver against his skin.

_Returned_ , it says.

The wind whistles over the water, and Castiel can taste its power on his tongue. It curls around them both, then passes onwards to where the men are only now turning their horses, staring at the scene before them in shock and horror as two dead men rise from the water.

“Alaestr!” Dean yells again, and this time, it’s clearer. Stronger. Power crackles through the air, and the horses on the riverbank dance uneasily, the whites of their eyes showing.

Alaestr himself sits atop his own restless mount, his mouth hanging open at the sight of Dean standing in the middle of the river. Water runs down his body, drips from his hair, and the silver of the rune on his chest slowly fades.

“You… You’re dead!”

Dean grins, feral and menacing, and shrugs his shoulders. “I guess I was. Not any more, though. The gods must like me.” He touches the rune on his chest, and even from this distance, Castiel can see Alaestr pale. _Good_. He is right to be scared.

Castiel wades up to Dean’s side, and Alaestr’s gaze flicks between the two of them. It’s not every day that one sees two dead men—each with a very good reason for revenge—come back to life. Watching the fear on the Jarl’s face is very satisfying. “Any man who has not caused myself or Dean any harm,” he calls out across the water, “may go. Our quarrel is not with you. Our quarrel is with torturers and murders.” Castiel rests his hand pointedly on the hilt of his sword and locks eyes with Alaestr, his voice ice-cold and sharp as steel. “I told you I would kill you with my last breath. Looks like I’ll have the chance to fulfil my wish.”

The situation proves too much for some of Alaestr’s followers; they are not eager to fight two men clearly touched by the gods, and Castiel’s pardon is all the incentive they need to wheel their horses around and gallop away into the darkness.

“Come back, you _huglausi_ ,” Alaestr roars, but it’s too late. All he can do is watch as his men desert him, one by one, until it’s only him and a handful of his closest, most battle-hardened soldiers.

“Not so much of a leader now,” Dean mutters under his breath. “Got any weapons for me, _ást_?”

Castiel reaches wordlessly for his belt and hands Dean the two daggers he has sheathed there. “They’re not much, but I’m sure you’ll be able to do some damage with them,” he tells his husband. Dean’s expression is grim and vengeful, and the way he looks, wet and dirt-stained and without his shirt, the rune still clear on his chest…

He’s terrifying and beautiful and Castiel has never been happier to have him by his side.

He draws his own sword—the one given to him by his father, given to him by _Odin_ —and feels his skin prickle with its power. Despite his long journey, despite his exhaustion and his visit to Valhalla and all the emotional weight of everything that has happened, he knows he will fight until his last breath, and he _will_ see Alaestr dead.

“Ready?” Dean asks, spinning one dagger in his hand and curling his fingers tightly around the handles. His gaze is set determinedly on the shore, where Alaestr and his men circle on their horses and brandish their weapons. It should be an uneven match—two barely-armed men against a group of mounted warriors—but somehow, Castiel doesn’t feel that scared. 

“Ready,” he confirms.

Step by step, side by side, they wade back across the river towards the near bank.

“Ready!” Alaestr shouts, and the few remaining warriors with bows nock their arrows. “Fire!”

The arrows speed towards them, but Dean and Castiel keep walking, heads high and weapons held ready. The arrows fall harmlessly into the water around them, and Alaestr’s face pales. “Again!” he shouts, and again the arrows miss their mark. They’ve almost reaches the bank now, and Castiel can see the fear dawning on the warriors’ faces as they step out of the water and onto the riverbank, unharmed and untouched.

They are two men, risen from the dead and immune to the best efforts of Alaestr’s archers. They are touched by the gods, they are leaders, and they are _not_ to be fucked with.

One warrior turns and deserts at the sight of them standing on the riverbank, weapons in their hands and vengeance in their eyes. Castiel’s mouth twists into a satisfied smile. One down—three to go, and then it will be just them and Alaestr.

“Attack them!” Alaestr shrieks, and the remaining men spur their horses into action. The ground rumbles beneath their hooves, digging into peaty soil as they rapidly close the distance, but before they manage to reach Dean and Castiel—

A bundle of black feathers appears in front of them, the raven spreading its wings with a menacing _caw!_

The horses balk and wheel, faced with the furious raven. Two of them rear up on the spot, while another bolts in the opposite direction, carrying its shouting rider along with it into the trees. The warriors mounted on the two remaining horses attempt to settle their horses, pulling on the reins and turning them in circles, but to no avail. The horses don’t move, snorting and dancing as the raven lands on the ground in front of them and stares them down.

After a few seconds of trying to move on, the warriors give up and dismount. As soon as their feet touch the ground, their horses pull out of their grip, turn, and canter away.

Now it’s two armed men against two armed men. Castiel grins and tightens his grip on his sword.

The men advance on them, scowls on their faces and swords brandished. One of them swipes at the raven with his sword, but the bird hops neatly out of the way before he can make contact, and delivers a swift peck to the man’s sword hand before taking flight into the sky.

“ _Fuck!_ ” the man exclaims, and while Alaestr’s men are briefly distracted, Dean and Castiel take that as their opportunity to strike.

They move swiftly and as one, years of training together leaving them totally in tune with each other. Before the men truly realize what’s happening, they find themselves set upon, Dean taking the one with the injured hand and Castiel advancing on the other. For all that they seem to be seasoned, hardened warriors, Dean was trained by one of the best warriors and Jarls seen in many years, John Strongsword himself, and Castiel in turn was trained by Dean. They’re quick on their feet, their blades flickering silver in the moonlight, and it doesn’t take long before Castiel has his opponent disarmed and lying in the mud before him, knocked unconscious by the hilt of his sword.

Dean, armed only with his two daggers, has a little more difficulty with his warrior, but he’s all quick movement and strategic parries, and soon enough he manages to catch his enemy’s blade between his daggers and disarm him with a swift flick of his wrists.

The man stares at his sword where it lies in the dirt, eyes wide and full of fear, then turns tail and runs.

Castiel shares a glance with his _verr_ , and then they turn in unison to their final opponent.

Alaestr.

The man is staring at them with wide eyes, but even as Castiel watches, his expression morphs into one of fury, his face twisted and bitter and angry. “You think you can defeat me?” he spits from atop his horse, which is foaming at the mouth but held tight by Alaestr’s grip on the reins. “I should have killed you when I had the chance, but I captured you once, and I’ll do it again.”

“You and what men?” Dean snarls, pushing the daggers into his belt and picking up the warrior’s sword from the dirt to brandish in front of him. “Your warriors were the ones who captured me, not you. You tortured an imprisoned man with no means of escape—and now all your childish marks of revenge are gone.” He gestures to his bare torso, healed as though the wounds were never there, and Alaestr blanches. “So if you really believe that you will come out of this fight victorious, then you are even more of a fool than I thought.”

Alaestr snarls, and when he speaks, his voice drips with barely-bridled fury. “I will die before I let you win, son of John. I _will_ have vengeance for my brother.”

Dean twirls his sword in his hand, then plants his feet securely in the dirt. “Then so be it.”

There’s a moment of silent stillness, and then Alaestr yanks his horse around by the reins and charges towards them, and there is no more time for thinking or for words.

The horse charges directly towards Dean, who jumps out of the way of thundering hooves and the wildly swinging blade of Alaestr’s sword. Castiel gets the feeling that this, the final fight… This is something they need to do on their own. Odin will not help them here.

And then there is no more time for thinking. There is only the rush of adrenaline in his blood and the pounding of his own heart against his ribcage as Alaestr wheels his horse again and Castiel finds himself fighting for his life.

Alaestr has the advantage of height and speed, since he’s still seated atop his warhorse, but there are two of Dean and Castiel, and they’re quick enough to be able to dodge out of the way of the charging beast. Any mistake on either side could be deadly, though, and that’s why Castiel has to trust his gut and instinct to let him know where to place his feet, how to swing his sword, when to parry, attack, dodge.

Castiel manages to land a glancing blow across Alaestr’s calf, and the man howls in pain. On the next charge, he targets Castiel specifically and slices him across the shoulder with his sword. His blood flecks the dark earth, and Castiel grits his teeth against the pain. The Jarl is wheeling his horse once more, eyeing them both up as though deciding which to aim for next.

In the brief pause, Dean catches Castiel’s eye. He gestures with his free hand—quick movements that Castiel only catches through years of living and training with Dean—then nods his head towards Alaestr.

It’s risky, but it could work.

Castiel turns towards Alaestr and plants his feet. “Hey, _vikskertr_ ,” he shouts, just as Alaestr starts to turn his horse in Dean’s direction. The insult stops him in his tracks, and he turns back towards Castiel with a vicious yank of the reins and a snarl on his face. Staring down that much hatred is intimidating, but Castiel knows he has to stand his ground for this to work.

He draws in a steadying breath. “Was your brother as much of a _daufi_ as you are?” he calls out across the space between them. His words ring out across the grass and the water, lit by the silvered light of the moon. Out of the corner of his eye, Castiel sees Dean sheathe his sword. “After all, what kind of _skreyja_ gets himself sentenced to death for such a stupid, avoidable reason? Or perhaps he was just downright evil, killing a thrall.”

Alaestr is still with rage now—Castiel can see it in his face. He delivers the final blow.

“He deserved the end that he met.”

Alaestr screams in fury and spurs his horse, sending it charging in Castiel’s direction.

Castiel can see the smallest movements in his peripheral vision, and wills himself to stay still as the horse gallops towards him, flying over the ground in a matter of seconds. All he can do now is stand his ground until the very last moment and hope that he’s given Dean the window that he needs.

One.

Two.

_“See, Cas? It’s weighted at this end so that it spins when you throw it. Want to try?”_

_Although Castiel had aimed squarely at the target Dean had painted onto the tree in front of him, the dagger only glances against the bark of the tree and spins off into the underbrush. Dean chuckles in amusement and presses up behind Castiel, the second dagger in his hand._

_“You’ve gotta breathe,” he whispers in Castiel’s ear, “and focus. See your target. Visualise the dagger landing.”_

_He lifts his arm and draws back._

Three.

Castiel leaps out of the way just as Alaestr lifts his arm to swing his sword wildly, landing hard in the dirt and winding himself. There’s no time for recovery, and he knows that every one of these breaths could be his last before Alaestr finishes him for good. The last swing had only nearly missed—so close that he’d felt it nick at the fabric of his tunic.

The next blow never comes

When he lifts his head from the dirt, Alaestr is still sitting atop his horse.

His eyes are wide, sword still half-raised. The handle of one dagger protrudes from his side, beneath his outstretched arm. The other is lodged firmly in his shoulder.

As Castiel watches, his grip on his sword loosens until it slips from his fingers. It feels as though time itself has slowed down as the man who has caused both Castiel and Dean so much misery slumps in the saddle and falls to the ground.

His horse skitters to the side, snorting heavily, then turns and runs in the direction that the other warriors had gone, disappearing into the trees. Alaestr is left alone in the dirt. Opposite his prone body, Dean lowers his outstretched hand, and there’s a satisfied twist to his lips. His aim had proven true.

Slowly, Castiel picks himself up off the ground, his body groaning in protest, then dusts himself off. The night isn’t over yet; he made himself a promise, and he is going to see it through.

Castiel feels as though he’s floating as he crosses the distance to where Alaestr lies crumpled on the ground. Dean matches him step by step, until they’re both standing over Alaestr, over the man who has caused them both so much pain, who has _killed_ each of them in turn and yet still planned to raze their village to the ground.

Dean moves to draw his stolen sword, but Castiel stops him with a hand around his wrist.

_“I’ll kill you."_

“Don’t,” he says quietly.

Dean gives him a look of confusion, but relents. Castiel lets go of his wrist, and his hand falls back to his side.

They look down at Alaestr, who has turned pale, red staining his clothes and beginning to pool on the earth beneath him. He’s mortally wounded, that much is clear, but he still glares up at them with hatred in his eyes. Every inhale seems like a gargantuan effort, his breath wheezing and rattling in his chest, and Castiel knows that he does not have long left in this world, but he wants to make _sure_ that this monster has left Midgard for good.

He unsheathes his sword and steps right up to Alaestr’s side. This close, he’s well within the man’s reach, but from the feeble way he clutches at the dagger buried between his ribs, Castiel doesn’t think he’s in any danger right now. He levels the point of his sword at Alaestr’s chest and waits until that cloudy, unfocused gaze meets his.

“You tortured my husband,” he says quietly. “You killed both of us. You were planning to raze my village to the ground. You are a monster, and I promised myself before I died that I would kill you, and here I am, delivered back to Midgard.” His hand is steady on his sword. “The gods have decided that it is not my time to die. I cannot say the same for you.”

Blood stains Alaestr’s lips and teeth, but still he sneers up at them. “Go to Hel,” he wheezes.

Castiel presses the tip of his sword against Alaestr’s chest, over his heart. “We won't be the ones going to Hel, Alaestr,” he says, and then he puts all his weight over his sword and drives it home in one swift blow.

Alaestr exhales one last wheezing breath, and the light fades from his unseeing eyes. Castiel lets go of his sword and staggers back, into Dean’s waiting embrace.

Castiel’s promise has been carried through. His husband and his village are safe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Svefn: sleep  
> Alföðr: Allfather  
> Norge: Norway  
> Vikskertr: shortwit  
> Daufi: idiot  
> Skreyja: incompetent


	9. epilogue

Dean still isn’t quite sure what happened that night.

He remembers all of the before and the after. Cas rescuing him, their escape across the river, the pure exhaustion in his bones and the agony of the arrow piercing into his skin. He remembers everything going fuzzy, and the last thing he saw being Cas’s blue eyes before the darkness claimed him for good. 

Except it hadn’t been for good.

Everything after—the fight with Alaestr, Cas sinking a blade into his chest, the long ride home and the many days he’d spent in bed—he remembers. What’s not so clear is whatever happened in between, though he vaguely remembers running, running _to_ Cas and kissing him. But that’s all, and he _knows_ there’s more to it.

Castiel knows, and he’s promised to tell Dean, but the time isn’t right for that yet, and Dean can respect that. His husband has changed since that night, and Dean is sure that he’ll understand why once he knows the full story.

For now, all Dean has to go by and to base his theories on is the rune that Castiel bears on his chest. Like Dean’s, it’s faded from a brightly glowing sigil to a scar, but both of their runes are clearly defined, and Castiel’s rune is not the same as Dean’s.

Dean’s rune means _returned_.

Cas’s means _of the gods._

What in Hel’s name that means, Dean isn’t sure, but while he’s desperately curious about it, he’s also not going to pry into details that his husband clearly isn’t ready to share yet. He can be patient.

…Mostly.

For the past week, though, they’ve had other things more important than wondering about the markings on their chests and why (and _how_ ) they had appeared there. The trip back to _Týrvik_ had been slow, although Dean had commandeered a horse from the now-leaderless village—once the adrenaline from their fight with Alaestr had worn off, they had both been exhausted. It seems that coming back from the dead isn’t quite as easy and invigorating as one would hope.

There had been questions once they had returned home, of course. Sam had been keeping the village protected and controlled, and while he’d been doing a great job of it, he’d been happy to see both of them return unharmed (to his knowledge, at least. Dean still isn’t sure if he’ll ever tell his brother the full story). Once the initial welcome had passed, though, they’d both been relegated to bed rest. After days of torture and captivity in that small, uncomfortable hut, sleeping on a real bed again had been one of the best feelings of his life.

And waking up next to Cas every morning again?

He’d known how lucky he is _before_ all this had happened, but now that he knows he’d almost lost his husband for good, he treasures it so much more. He makes the most of it, keeping Cas by his side as much as he can. They had stayed in bed together for the first few days, touching and talking and making love with the quiet desperation that only those who have almost lost each other can possess. Even once the village’s _v_ _ǫ_ _lva_ (and Sam, of course) have permitted them to leave their bed and their house, they stay close by each other.

A week after they had returned, exhausted but victorious, Sam and the village throw them a feast. By the village’s standards, it’s a decadent spread—all the best quality food has been put towards this celebration, as is only fitting for the return of the two Jarls who are so beloved by their people.

It’s a good night of celebration, and the first time that Dean and Castiel have been properly out amongst their people, now that they’ve recovered from their harrowing experience. They spend their time talking to anyone and everyone, though Cas still doesn’t like letting Dean out of his sight, so he makes sure to stick close by to his husband.

There’s no one he’d rather be around, though, especially not now that Cas holds himself differently, speaks with more confidence and authority, like he’s finally comfortable settling into his role as Dean’s second-hand man.

It really is time that Dean made him an official Jarl of _Týrvik_ , but that can wait.

For now, he watches Cas from across the long line of tables that have been set out close to the beach—there’s no way that the Tinghöll could have hosted the entire village. His husband is talking to Herja by the fire, little Sigrunn perched up on his shoulders and happily holding onto fistfuls of his hair. The light from the bonfire illuminates his profile and the sharp line of his jaw, and Dean’s heart skips a beat. Gods, he doesn’t have words to express how glad he is to be back here, with his husband in his village, the two of them and the rest of his people finally safe.

And then Herja inclines her head towards where Dean is sitting, and Cas turns to follow her gesture. When he meets Dean’s gaze, he breaks into a smile, wide and happy. From atop his shoulders, Sigrunn waves her chubby fist in Dean’s direction.

Dean waves back, grinning wider than he can remember doing in a long while. Cas says a few words to Herja, then reaches up and lifts Sigrunn off his shoulders. She laughs and kicks at the air as he lowers her back down onto the ground, then wraps her little arms around one leg in a hug. Herja hugs Cas as well, and then the shield-maiden scoops up her daughter and heads over to where other villagers are singing and dancing by the fire, leaving Cas alone.

He shifts aside on the bench to make room when he sees that his husband is heading over towards him, but instead of taking a seat beside Dean like he expected, Cas bends down to wrap his arms around Dean’s shoulders. “How are you doing?” he murmurs against Dean’s ear, sending a shiver down the Jarl’s spine. Ever since they returned, Cas has been  _different_ —in a good way, of course. More relaxed, more confident, more decisive.

It’s _hot_ , and it’s definitely translated well in the bedroom, as they found out during their few days of ‘rest’, and Dean can’t help but perk up in response to his husband’s tone. “I’m okay,” he says, leaning back into Castiel’s embrace. “A little tired, but so happy to see our village carefree and celebrating.”

Cas hums his agreement, then presses a kiss to Dean’s neck, just below the bolt of his jaw. “Me too. I was thinking we might like to have a little time alone, though. Did you want to get out of here, just for a little bit?”

“Damn, Cas, that’s awfully forward of you,” Dean teases, but he’s glad that the night and the light of the bonfire mostly hide the pink of his cheeks.

“I didn’t mean it like that.” Dean can basically hear Cas’s grin in his words. “That can wait until later, you flirt. I just figured we might want to go somewhere a little quieter— _without_ your mind going to dirty places, _ást_.”

There are so many ways he could continue to tease Cas, to keep the flirting going, but admittedly, right now all he wants is to just be in his husband’s presence. “Okay,” he says softly, then turns his head to press a kiss to Cas’s cheek.

They manage to slip away from the feast without anyone calling them back, and hold hands like a sappy newlywed couple all the way up to the paddocks. That’s where the sweetness ends, though—they race up the hill together, Castiel pulling ahead on Elisif but clearly waiting for Dean, and Dean cantering along on Ilmr while he tries to focus solely on not slipping off. Somehow they make it up to the top of the mountain, and even though Cas is laughing at Dean’s haphazard position clinging to Ilmr’s back, his laughter ringing out into the night sky, Dean is completely, irrefutably, _happy_.

They leave the horses to graze on the hillside and make their way over to the spot they’ve been visiting ever since they were just teenagers. This time, when they climb their way up to the top of the boulder, it’s not a race or a competition. They match each other all the way up, and when they reach the top, they settle comfortably on the stone, sitting beside one another and looking out over the cove. The celebratory bonfire on the beach still burns brightly, the villagers dancing around it merely little dots in the distance.

Dean reaches for his husband’s hand, and Cas smiles over at him beneath the starlit sky as they twine their fingers together. “I told you I’d chase you all the way to Valhalla,” Cas murmurs quietly, his words floating on the still night air. “I would do anything for you, Dean.”

So he’d been right—the glimpse of stars he remembers, the pervading darkness, running with more purpose than he’s ever felt in his life—he’d gone to Valhalla.

And so had Cas.

His chest feels like it could crumple beneath the weight of this realisation, and he exhales shakily. Cas squeezes his fingers and presses his shoulder against Dean’s; a quiet comfort that does wonders.

“Thank you, my _ást_ ,” Dean says, once he feels as though he’s regained control of his voice. “I love you so much. You know that, right?” His voice cracks on the last word with the weight of his sentiments, but Castiel just smiles, soft and happy.

“I know,” he whispers, then draws Dean into a kiss. When they separate, Castiel’s eyes are sparkling brighter than every one of the stars in the sky. There is nothing left for them to say, not now, and so they sit side by side and look down over their village, safe and protected once again. Everything is right with the world.

Dean turns his gaze up to the stars. _Thank you, Odin_ , Dean thinks, in this moment of calm and quiet.

A gentle breeze curls over them, tousling Castiel’s hair and swaying the ties of Dean’s cloak. Below their cliff, the bonfire continues to burn, while the stars watch over silently from above. Castiel is a warm presence against Dean’s side, and all is right and at peace with the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this! Leave me a comment or kudos if you did :)
> 
> You can find me on tumblr [here](http://saltnhalo.tumblr.com), and subscribe to me on ao3 [here](https://archiveofourown.org/users/saltnhalo) <3


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